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Literature Text
Let's make you sensitive to pain.
Let's take your mind and implement
a new autonomic system.
One where you flinch from raised hands
and one where you submit to angry voices.
We'll make you sensitive
and we'll make you dependent
and we'll bury you in the dirt until you soften up.
We'll make you into a lawn ornament
and we'll crush your hope in a garlic press
because we like our women fearful.
You'll get to play outside once your wounds heal
(we don't want the neighbors asking questions)
and we'll distract your sorrow with new scars
Isn't it interesting, my love, how emotional trauma
can lay dormant for decades and the next time you
run into your trigger the volcano explodes?
After skin heals it doesn't reopen
but when emotions heal the scabs are fragile
pieces of glass, torn open by yours truly
to reveal your innards-
to prove to the world that your guts are just
as delicate as your eyes.
I want to be your trigger, love, and every time
you think of me I want you to cower,
I want you silent
I want you to understand
that no matter where you go,
you are on a leash
and the electric collar I placed in your autonomic system
will never run out of power.
Anytime anyone raises their hands, even to point directions
you will flinch and your cheek will remember the sting
and you will think of me.
I am your God and even when I'm dead
my remnants will be with your forever.
It's the greatest love story ever told.
The one with raised fists and broken glass
and the inability to escape.
I made you sensitive to pain, my love,
and for that, I made you beautiful.
Let's take your mind and implement
a new autonomic system.
One where you flinch from raised hands
and one where you submit to angry voices.
We'll make you sensitive
and we'll make you dependent
and we'll bury you in the dirt until you soften up.
We'll make you into a lawn ornament
and we'll crush your hope in a garlic press
because we like our women fearful.
You'll get to play outside once your wounds heal
(we don't want the neighbors asking questions)
and we'll distract your sorrow with new scars
Isn't it interesting, my love, how emotional trauma
can lay dormant for decades and the next time you
run into your trigger the volcano explodes?
After skin heals it doesn't reopen
but when emotions heal the scabs are fragile
pieces of glass, torn open by yours truly
to reveal your innards-
to prove to the world that your guts are just
as delicate as your eyes.
I want to be your trigger, love, and every time
you think of me I want you to cower,
I want you silent
I want you to understand
that no matter where you go,
you are on a leash
and the electric collar I placed in your autonomic system
will never run out of power.
Anytime anyone raises their hands, even to point directions
you will flinch and your cheek will remember the sting
and you will think of me.
I am your God and even when I'm dead
my remnants will be with your forever.
It's the greatest love story ever told.
The one with raised fists and broken glass
and the inability to escape.
I made you sensitive to pain, my love,
and for that, I made you beautiful.
Literature
Expiration
With you I always feel like I’m
trying
to break in the wrong size of shoes.
Sometimes I sit and stew
over how you’re seventeen and
you think I’m a princess
the trapped-in-a-tower kind
and how you wear suits and talk about politics
and think you know the world.
My throat interrupts with an affronted gurgling sound
sometimes when I think about you,
and how
you deal out advice where it just isn’t called for
you quote science-fiction to justify war
and you’re seventeen years old and you think I’m a princess
and you just have no blooming idea.
Darling, one of these days I will tell yo
Literature
Dysphoria
she sells 9mm shells by the seashore,
says she can hear the ocean.
but if you listen close to these shells
you can hear ghosts.
something borrowed, something blue,
something broken, something bruised.
she traces her fingers across the autopsy scars
while she counts her bones like currency.
she'll leave your skin screaming,
and sink into the whites of your eyes like a shipwreck.
can you hear the ocean?
Literature
Ours
Your eyes
glimmering like gold,
and I,
with lips of fire,
issue
an eternal vow
unto
your waiting heart:
My soul for yours.
The sunrise
has finally wrought
our fate,
your love,
budding like a lotus,
is mine
if your fingers
can but find
their place within my own.
Take the leap,
fall
to where only I
may catch
and you shall discover
the infinity
of true devotion
in
the unbound shape
of us.
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Weirdly enough, this is written from the point of view of one of my family members. I understand you because I was on the receiving end for so long. I get it. I get what control is. I understand why you are who you are.
Is it fair to explain a poem with another poem? It's like a footnote to help explain a footnote.
We trade places, and the yin turns to yang
and while the sun is setting, our backs get cold.
We spin around each other, like planets in orbit-
a gravity emulsifier. Lover magnets.
We sink into each others illnesses
like an alcoholic's enabler,
and tie the nooses around each others necks.
I do not hate you and yet I can't forgive you.
Like the story of the lady who swallowed a fly,
I will keep swallowing spiders until all remnants of you are gone.
Is it fair to explain a poem with another poem? It's like a footnote to help explain a footnote.
We trade places, and the yin turns to yang
and while the sun is setting, our backs get cold.
We spin around each other, like planets in orbit-
a gravity emulsifier. Lover magnets.
We sink into each others illnesses
like an alcoholic's enabler,
and tie the nooses around each others necks.
I do not hate you and yet I can't forgive you.
Like the story of the lady who swallowed a fly,
I will keep swallowing spiders until all remnants of you are gone.
© 2012 - 2024 ElegantFaith
Comments30
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maybe you could have turned this into an even more interesting read if it was more subtle. but i guess subtle wasn't the point at all and that's just fine.
the poem in the description is deserving of an unique post of its own, in my opinion. it's really nice.
the poem in the description is deserving of an unique post of its own, in my opinion. it's really nice.