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Literature Text
I'm wearing your hand from my neck.
I spent a week drying it out, preserving it, taking care that the tattoo was still visible. Once I was convinced that it didn't stink, I threaded the zip-tie through the wrist, hung it over my head and tucked it inside my jacket. Good thing, because I don't think this group I hooked up with would understand. Some of them still have their husbands, wives, kids, moms or dads out there. They still hope. They can still look at the moon and think to themselves, maybe you're looking at the same moon right now. They can stay warm with that thought as they drift off to sleep.
All I know is, if you're looking at the moon, you aren't thinking a damn thing. Not even of me.
I take it out now and then, when it's my turn on watch. Everyone else is asleep, or trying to be. I take out your hand and look at that tattoo. I did it for you, while I was learning the trade. It looks like shit, but you loved it.
WANT. You had me tattoo that on your left hand, in that spidery writing that I used to use back then.
Somewhere, you're out there. Maybe you're dead. Maybe you're shuffling around under this same moonlight. On the hand you've got left, I'd written IGNORANCE into your skin. Same spidery letters. It looked like shit, but you always kissed me and told me it was better than any ring.
Eventually, I put your hand away and someone relieves me. So it goes. Dark, sunrise, sunset, dark. Moonlight.
Sometimes I think I feel your hand move, feel it cup my boob like you'd do sometimes. I'd remember those mornings when you'd be making breakfast, but I wanted something else.
But it's just a dead thing. Somewhere out there, you're a dead thing. This hand around my neck is a dead thing. I fall asleep hoping that I'll find you crushed under a car somewhere, or against all odds, with your stump in a sling, surrounded by people like the people that surround me.
That's when I remember how I found your hand. It hadn't been cut off. Hadn't been torn off. It had been bitten off. Anyone who gets bit, they turn. I've seen it. I know that's what happened to you.
That's when my hope turns to ash, but it's still there. I hope, someday, we'll see each other again. I'll see your stump, and I'll see IGNORANCE on your other hand.
Then I can finish this. We can both rest then.
Til death do us part.
I spent a week drying it out, preserving it, taking care that the tattoo was still visible. Once I was convinced that it didn't stink, I threaded the zip-tie through the wrist, hung it over my head and tucked it inside my jacket. Good thing, because I don't think this group I hooked up with would understand. Some of them still have their husbands, wives, kids, moms or dads out there. They still hope. They can still look at the moon and think to themselves, maybe you're looking at the same moon right now. They can stay warm with that thought as they drift off to sleep.
All I know is, if you're looking at the moon, you aren't thinking a damn thing. Not even of me.
I take it out now and then, when it's my turn on watch. Everyone else is asleep, or trying to be. I take out your hand and look at that tattoo. I did it for you, while I was learning the trade. It looks like shit, but you loved it.
WANT. You had me tattoo that on your left hand, in that spidery writing that I used to use back then.
Somewhere, you're out there. Maybe you're dead. Maybe you're shuffling around under this same moonlight. On the hand you've got left, I'd written IGNORANCE into your skin. Same spidery letters. It looked like shit, but you always kissed me and told me it was better than any ring.
Eventually, I put your hand away and someone relieves me. So it goes. Dark, sunrise, sunset, dark. Moonlight.
Sometimes I think I feel your hand move, feel it cup my boob like you'd do sometimes. I'd remember those mornings when you'd be making breakfast, but I wanted something else.
But it's just a dead thing. Somewhere out there, you're a dead thing. This hand around my neck is a dead thing. I fall asleep hoping that I'll find you crushed under a car somewhere, or against all odds, with your stump in a sling, surrounded by people like the people that surround me.
That's when I remember how I found your hand. It hadn't been cut off. Hadn't been torn off. It had been bitten off. Anyone who gets bit, they turn. I've seen it. I know that's what happened to you.
That's when my hope turns to ash, but it's still there. I hope, someday, we'll see each other again. I'll see your stump, and I'll see IGNORANCE on your other hand.
Then I can finish this. We can both rest then.
Til death do us part.
Literature
Ink
-she's not reaching
for the words
(dangling by the threads
of letters
never meant to be hers
wasn't something
she wanted sewn
across her wrists)
because she knew
just standing at an impasse
was so much better than
trying to fill the void
with never-sent ink stains-
Literature
Divorce
Before that day,
Sunday mornings had never occurred to me.
I must have slept through their every summons:
I never knew the time sensitive ritual of finding matching socks,
forcing “nice” shoes over misshapen toes,
the silent pact we would share with the warm cushions of the divan
waiting for Mother to ready us, memories that settle in the guts
like a madstone, which I could then pull out of my old cadaver
to save myself in the next life.
There were a few moments. Like that time, in the garage,
basking in Father’s sunrise sorcery as he fired his magic timing light
into the fluttering lungs of an engine, or when he let
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?
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"This boy is Ignorance. This girl is Want. Beware them both, and all of their degree, but most of all beware this boy, for on his brow I see that written which is Doom, unless the writing be erased. Deny it!'' cried the Spirit, stretching out its hand towards the city. "Slander those who tell it ye! Admit it for your factious purposes, and make it worse! And bide the end!"
Charles Dickens, A Christmas Carol
Charles Dickens, A Christmas Carol
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This is just dark and unnervingly beautiful