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I S A A C Dec 2021
we were body to body
my head on your chest was my favourite hobby
until it went cold like hockey
how can something so intimate turn into just another thing?
another place, another time
another day I write my feelings inside
the colourful pages of my diary
wake up after dreaming of you with anxiety
my passion is fiery but the coals are growing cold
your hands I cannot even imagine anymore
your touch cannot activate me anymore
we cannot restore what we had before
sure we were body to body
and my head on your chest was my favourite hobby
but I deserve more, I cannot settle
we were golden but now there's rust in the metal
Norman Crane May 2021
They built a lighthouse,
to warn the ships.
The ships transported the sea.
You professed your love,
with living lips.
Your lips spoke words that buried me.

Tanker ships containing water,
run aground upon the sand.
A human being becomes a monster,
by another human's hand.

The future dies within.
The past is always evaporating.

As the tanker rusts,
so I also must,
until we are but two derelict husks,
filled with nothing but regret.

Once, here was the sea,
voluminous and wet!
Once, I was me,
until the day we met.
Behind the palm trees
In the vast, rust coloured sky
Sets the orange sun
KG Nov 2020
Waiting on the elevator
For my day of labor
Instant gratification after
Days of waiting safer
Now we talk in secret
Spaces craving the others
Flavor of disgust leaving
Rust in my joints and bones
Masochistic I remember
Pain has always been my
Home.
Zack Ripley Sep 2020
Red cheeks.
Flaming heart.
Soul stains and rusts
As it's consumed by lust.
But not for you.
Felicia Atanasio Sep 2020
bite into an apple
and it turns to dust on my tongue
constructing an illusion to try my trust

you carry a piece of me in you
and I don’t think I like it very much
the places we went
belong to you
nothing is mine
shoplifting my humor
and the rest of me too

coaxing figures in your diorama
bribes to reveal data
for you to
praise
punish

but you had no consequence
a knifefish in your own right
so hungry and full of electric

you always made sure we had an eager audience
I don’t think it was for them
you needed a way to create distance
while pulling me in close
a way to make us lie to ourselves about what we want

we’re far too enmeshed, even apart
still you want the words on my mind
and you’ll get off on seeing me compromised

I can smell the iron of our spilled blood
aftermath of our overflow

the garden of eden is covered in rust

you don’t believe in anything
you just hate to lose an argument
the pious are never wrong
their actions are always just

I don’t want to carry your rib
you can have it back
basil May 2020
i spit out
the words
you put in my mouth
so you feel
okay

but the taste
of rot
and rust
still remains
on my
tongue
05.19.2020
Tatiana May 2020
Iron legs brittle to the touch
ready to snap like dry twigs,
and yet it still carries mulch, tools, and plants.
Wheels tried and true.
Metal a sunset hue.
It’ll collapse no doubt into a heap on the ground
spilling its contents to be judged by the earth.
I wonder what will finally make it fail.
The stones? The dirt? The rain?
It’s a matter of when, not if.
All carriers crumble under the weight.
©Tatiana
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