Posts
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“Name your torture,”
one of them said
with a wink.
I wanted an orchard
but I swallowed the vodka
he handed me
willingly.“The Gorge”
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“I begin to see how the line is crossed, between histrionics and murder.”
–Margaret Atwood, Cat’s Eye
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“But I can’t believe in my own sadness, can’t take it seriously. I watch myself crying in the mirror, intrigued by the sight of tears.”
-margaret atwood, cat’s eye
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“i hurt. i keep that scream in and at what pain.
at what repeal of salvage and eclipse.
army unhonored, meriting the gold,
i have sewn my guns inside my lips.”–gwendolyn brooks, Riders to the Blood-red Wrath
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trying to keep semblance of order in creativity. i mean what are they using as containers? teach me.
no, im stubborn and mean. no one can teach me a thing. i have made my castle’s bed of thorns and i have wished you so so well and i will now lie in it.
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i decide to switch gears.
call them “collected stories.’
stop looking at anyone.
stop staring at screens.
south philly is not a pleasant walk.
spend time inside, warm,
insulated and on the yoga mat
listening to Hz tones
and sobbing if the time passes
too slowly. i can’t count
anymore, all i am missing is the floral
crown and you would see me at the
ceremony watching lovers jump
the cliff.
hi.
i spend time in the mirror
“collecting stories.”
right before i met you,
i asked for everything. -


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sometimes i think i moved here just to make a ton of money and move back, richer.
if you think leaving cross country in a car that had no heat with a partner that maybe mildly hated me at the time in the middle of a polar vortex, january, to move to kensington didn’t mark some part of my soul and steal something from me, i intend to prove to you, without blame or fault, how fucked up this journey has made me.
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i begin to draw my plans back to colorado which i never thought was possible. i wake up with a full savings account and everything worth leaving. i tried. i made some mark. i learned a lot. i wanted to help, the city is gray and full of trash and i feel nothing for it now.
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this next section is inspired by Midsommar.
it’s called grief.
it is just me furiously writing and crying and not telling anyone