I am afraid to make today my home, I am afraid to buy pillows in the comfort of this moment, so I try to imagine the future, I like to think that it is a road lined with flowers in the colors of my youth, but there are no flowers, I don’t even think that if there is a road, it is lined with commas. When I dare my mind to try to imagine the future, I only see myself, no bills, no house, no job, no person, no plan, just myself standing in a field of baby green ampersands, cutting my hair and then holding a small bird, and the bird doesn’t sing for me, as I promised I would never ask it to, it just stays alive beside me. So most days we break apart plums with our fingers like stories, and we make each day, each plum our home, and we are perfect and we are whole in this interval of quiet, where the sun is the only one who gets to see. -anna sluder
When were you going to tell me That I am becoming your carbon dioxide When simply in my presence, at the look at my face Your skin thins of color, until eventually you turn as blue as mold on bread As blue as waters an infant drowns in And you stumble backwards choking on my existence Suffocating on her lack of existence When were you ever going to tell me That I am your carbon dioxide The putrid taste you wring from your tongue With a swish of water, with a gulp of her The forgotten halos of cold breaths wispy and wet Drying and floating away into the icy sky When were you ever going to choose a damn time to tell me That I will always be your carbon dioxide The disposable you will always use like razor blades That are there for the moment to saw the growing filth off And then soon in the trashcan as shunned as your dirt But baby I can cut too So when were you going to tell me you fo...
I stand on my toes, on a box, on top of a wheeled chair to reach the clock high above me, so that I can cut the whiskers of it off with a pair of gardening scissors. But I hear a knock at the door and it is present standing in the way holding a fish, she hands it to me, so I ask her what to do with it, she tells me she knows that everything the birds say really matters to me that she knows that I count and store every breath that the trees release, in an empty peanut butter jar under my bed, but that I could not remember my first cold water, there was no recollection of my first bright moon. She tells me to hold the fish and decide what it means to me in terms of love, so that I will remember when I leave this room, and when I go to sleep, that I once loved something new, and small, and grey, and something that had scales and looked nothing like me, and I didn’t know where it came from or where it would go from there, but that that di...
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