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Literature
my neighbour has a garden.
my neighbour has a garden
& not many flowers bloom,
but he tends to it with great care –
his garden is bereft of birds,
stripped of glee or sunlight,
& rain always seems to bathe the ground
his daughters don’t come by anymore;
it’s just me in his backyard,
listening to his war stories told to no one –
he tells them to the wind with tears in his eyes,
(begging someone to please
“listen to me”)
but little does he know that the wind
has a name
Literature
i indent because.
my poetry
is a
contortionist
{i simply
guide her spine}
Literature
how to tell me my scars are beautiful.
leave roses with thorns on my stairwell, the kind
that would entice me when i was fourteen but now
serve as silent irritation—when we eat steak, use
your thinnest, sharpest knife to cleave the meat
into tiny squares and let me watch you wash it
and put it away when you’re done—open your
packages with your trusty pocket knife, peter
pan boy scout, and when i move in, let me
borrow it; don’t question the t-shirts i order
in winter and the sweatshirts i order during the
sweltering heat of summer—when i lay beside you
at night and talk about the state of the universe
that day, nibble on my ear, scratch my arm, sl
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A short story I wrote for a contest on another site
Mature
© 2012 - 2024 GhostGirl818
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