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Julia Mar 2018
if I could propagate
bright burgundies
would    F
   ­­                L              my pages
if I could seed my sages
savor flavor
in my soils’ *****

baby read my mind
out LOUD
                    p them off your

quick tip:
a 3” snip and d  them in d
                         i                   r
                         p               i
line them
in white powder
beg them to           f
                       L      O      W    
                           e        r

cake is fake so take
your time to

the kids will be just fine

s                               e
    m                      l
       ­                                           a
                    ­                              l
                                 ­                 l
                                              ­    r
       ­                                           g
                    ­                              h
                                 ­                 t

i’m lost my (chain) of thought
cost too much i bought
cheap seeds
their screaming bleeds
bright burgundy
in my bed

i said
Indigo Snow come home
to set (me) free
lay me          to sleep


if you don’t get it then forget it so i don’t have to fking explain it. -ldr
Katinka Nov 2019
Step 1:
Reread all old messages

Step 2:
Regret everything

look at old pictures

Step 4:
Cry your eyes out

Step 5:
Once you finished pitying yourself, get your **** togheter

Step 6:
Delete everything, photos, messages, everything

Step 7:
Get drunk

Step 8:
Remembering you didn´t delet their number
and calling them, drunk

Step 9:
Regret everything again

Step 10:
Watch 90´s love movies and eat ice cream

Step 11:
Get dressed, make yourself ready to go out

Sep 12:
Get drunk again

Step 13:
Do not call them
be strong

Step 14:
Cry yourself to sleep

Step 15:
Stand up, you are strong.
Now tell that the mirror another 99 times.

Step 16:
Smile, it´s okay to happy

Step 17:
Remember you could live without them before

Step 18:
Breathe, look around and notice the world didn´t stop spinning

Step 19:
Remember the good times, but don´t cry. Just smile

Step 20:
Love yourself.
Jade Mar 2020
Archaic superstitions
have convinced the masses
that the girl who lives on the
13th floor is bad luck.

Her tears seep
from the hardwood
to the floors below,
electrocuting the dining room chandeliers
and burning out the sconces.

There just aren't
enough pots and pans
to contain her storm.

the people downstairs
seem to forget
how there was once a time
when she would let them drink from
the fractured chalices of her palms,
sewing her fingers together
with cobwebs so that not a drop
evaded their thirsty lips.

Their hands do not reciprocate,
while hers do nothing but

She yearns for the sight
of the number 13,
encircled like a new moon
amongst the rows
of elevator buttons.

Instead, they've

the letters & books & poems
she'd given them
over the years,
using the ashes
to rouge their egos.

Excavated the pixie dust
from her fingertips

(Do you recall
the death of Tinker Bell--
how her light went dark
after they stopped
believing in fairies--
after they stopped
beliving in her?)

Broke through the
stained glass of her irises,
plundering every
brilliantly-coloured fragment.

Bridging the longitude
of her spine, a laceration
from where the shards
were  punctured and


they destroyed
every beautiful part of her
before hiding her in the attic
like a secret

(she has many secrets,
but so do they).

You should see her now:

The way she wears her loneliness so

(Then again,
did she ever really
have any other choice?)

she'll do anything
she can to keep
the cold from
permeating her lungs.

So she fills the tub
to a scald,
it's gnarled feet
caving beneath the gravity
of her sadness.

Matches smoulder
until the candelabras
are starved of their wax,
wicks frayed like
spool of her heartstrings.

Memories both
kind & cruel play tug-o-war
with her capillaries,
some gliding
across her heartstrings
like a violin bow,
birthing symphonic renditions of
inside jokes;
chlorine braided
like ribbons
in the hair of best friends;
walks along sun-strewn culdesacs;
the scent of used bookstores--
something like vanilla and earth.

If only the girl
on the 13th floor
could deteriorate as gracefully
as the pages of worn books.

Each recollection of
plucks at heartstrings
with calloused fingers
until they snap.

Ears are severed Julienne style
across the cutting board of her skull,
cuz maybe then she won't hear
the defamations that sit atop
their salivating tongues like pop rocks.

Don't they know their attempts at secrecy are futile?

That she can still
feel the explosive slanders
as they tremble against
the roofs of their unloyal mouths?

The roof of her own
fortress collapses,
shingles thundering down
in percussive eruptions.

she tries to create her own luck,
gathering charms to ward off the
skeletons quaking in the closet.

No rabbit's feet,
just her own paws
cleaved from her ankles,
by way of bread knife,
serrated and adorned in rust
from where her eyes
have  hurricaned over steel.

No clovers,
only dead rose petals,
withered and cliche,
glued in fours
using whatever is salvageable:
stale candle wax
old chewing gum

No acorns to kiss
because tokens of love
have no place
on the 13th floor

(neither do fairy tales).

No ink.

she writes
with her blood,
morbidly inspired
by the carnage.

(because carnage is all she has ever known.)

And despite their
archaic superstitions,
they still read her poetry,
stanzas stacked
like tarantula legs

(and perhaps just as lethal).

Keys are pried from the keyboard.

[ 1 ]   [ 3 ]
                 [ E ]  [ R ] [T]
                                                             ­ [ I ]
                                           [ H ]

                                                       [ N ]

Her words attempt to crawl
past blue monitor screens,
caught in a vortex of robotic actions.

                                           [ Delete ]

[ Alt ]      [Ctrl]

                                           [ Delete


          ­                                 [ Delet

                                          [ Dele

                                          [ Del

                                          [ De

                                          [ D


          ­                               |
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hfallahpour May 2016
Since memories last forevermore
Should I push delet button
should I?
Since I'm not able to turn the clock back
Should I push reset button
should I?
Since I'm in a Jolly mood
should I push pause button
Should I?
since I like to move at the speed of light
should I push forward button
should I?
But I prefer stay at the present time
pluck the day
on my life's way

— The End —