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the girl on the subway

“Life is not a story,” said The Girl With Dull Eyes.

She was leaning against the stairwell with a cigarette dangling from loose fingers. I looked at the makeup on her temple, its side-swept path like smeared black teardrops. The Girl With Dull Eyes saw her face as a canvas, I thought, her hand the…

graffiti daydreams

They soak their hands in buckets of bittersweet memories, miseries,
heads tilting inquisitively from side to side, blossoming hues on the concrete floors,
and the boy with his lips stretched wide has a tangerine laugh,
and the girl with oceans for eyes has a cerulean voice, and I lie against the w…

how to write a poem

Find the disembodied inner voice suppressed by your battered lungs,
The restless fighter one with a bedhead and mauve knuckles and cramped legs.
Let it run up your throat and dance on your lips and pool in your eyes,
Throbbing at the ridges of your spine and the base of your neck,

three lies

We were counting on our fingertips each interval of the future. It was preferable, we'd heard, to sinking in an ocean of doubts.
Only I couldn’t stand  How it was swimming in our eyes  And when I tried to wipe it from mine  It took up residence inside of me.  I decided that was worse.
So I ple…

i left it with you

Oh, but if a single lifetime is the precipice of eternity, How can it fail to leave you breathless?
The ground back home was susceptible to infallibility, So when I tossed the seeds they rarely took root. There’s more to it than that, the gardener told me, And he taught me to pour sentiment into t…

the ghost

There is a ghost in the dreamer's room composing stories on the wall. He plasters them over the cracks, paints gold in the jagged lines, so she assumes he can draw. But it’s clear he cries when he works because she sees it in the marks on the floor: Tears of a raging mind, she knows, because t…

a wisp of the story

This morning I have burrowed myself into a crevice in the hill to watch golden rivers trickle across the landscape.
There’s a story in my head, and it never ends. Sometimes when I’m dreaming I can touch the pages. They are soft, but filmy, almost translucent. They slide between my fingers when I t…
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