to the woman who drowned herself in the bathtub. by littleblueraccoon, literature
Literature
to the woman who drowned herself in the bathtub.
i.
to the woman who drowned herself in the bathtub:
in the magazine I own that published your story,
they blurred out the crime scene photographs,
erasing your face and
the full curves of your breasts.
some part of me wonders
if you would have wanted this,
or if you would have liked for
the public to see you in your final moments,
half-soaked in grey-looking water,
your hair in strings, glued to the porcelain,
eyes closed and mouth gaping,
no breath stirring, no bubbles rising.
ii.
sometimes when I look
into the depths of my bathroom sink,
I hear your voice
(or what I imagine it to be--
after all, we never met).
you sit on the edge
I Can't Remember To Forget You by marchingclock, literature
Literature
I Can't Remember To Forget You
I am forgetful.
Sometimes I forget my keys,
and sometimes I forget my phone.
Sometimes I become so wrapped up in the computer or a show that I forget about lunch until three in
the afternoon.
I can write reminders on the back of my hand in ink,
and I can stick infinite Post-It notes to walls and notebooks and the bathroom mirror,
but to no avail.
A moment will pass and whatever thought I'd had will have left.
I am forgetful.
But I remember what's important.
I may forget my keys,
but I'll never forget your smile when you locked the door to your bedroom behind us that first day.
I may forget my phone,
but I'll always have your num
I had never seen the rain. Not like this, anyway. Not on the day we met, huddled under a tree waiting for the bus, when we were cold and drenched but still smiling. Not on the night everything fell apart in your living room, when our yelling drowned out the thunder in the sky.
This time it's different. It's the same thick veil of rain I've seen so many times in movies, but this time, it feels like a sign. The torrential downpour is reminiscent of so many nights I spent with you, and it brings a sinking feeling to my stomach.
When my phone buzzed on my bedside table last night, illuminating the darkness of the walls with your name on the scr
it's the color of blood when it runs through your veins. it's the color of bruises when they burst beneath your skin. it's the color of my eyes when they look at you from across the room.
it's the color of the tablecloth your mother served dinner on and the color of your bed sheets as we fell down onto them when no one was home. it's the color of your t-shirt, abandoned across the room with the rest of our clothes. it's the color of the sky outside, dark and littered with stars.
it's the color of the notebook i write details of you down in. it's the color of the ink in the pen you gave me in class the first time we spoke.
it's one half of
Black Cat Amber Eye by Malintra-Shadowmoon, literature
Literature
Black Cat Amber Eye
Black coat with silken hair,
The eyes bright and young in years.
But what this glance is saying
Is as old as the world.
The eyes almost closed,
Snuggled and silent dreaming,
She lies like spilled –
Inwards restless, exuberant.
Stretched out peaceful and easy –
Gentle soul, full of happiness.
I ask myself what she might intend
By her soft glance?
Often, she lies around sleeping
And after a while, she opens
The little mouth and bends the back.
But everything without haste.
Then, when she starts to rub gently
Around my legs, purring –
It is only up to her
When she moves my heart.
When I take her in my arms
And look into he
I read a story once about a man who had six PhD's in six different fields. I don't remember what fields they were, but I was impressed - that much I remember. As I read on, it became clear that the reason he found so much success was his severe OCD. He was so consumed by the disorder that he read each page of each textbook hundreds of times. And I remember thinking it was crazy, insane, psychotic. But I guess it worked for him. So I forgot about the man with the six PhD's and the torturous perfectionism that some call "disorder."
Until I Met Candyce Karolyn Ethanson.
It was fourth grade and I called her names behind her back because she h
I watched my best friend die.
It wasn't in a hospital and it wasn't an accident on some road somewhere. There's a saying, and I guess it's also… funny… how you never know what's going on behind closed doors.
I guess you're probably thinking of suicide - overdose, hanging by the rope, or (god forbid) the knife, but... it's not that.
Because it's one thing to die and it's another to die. I believe you can exist without properly living.
What is a life? We are born into this world with no say on the matter, and yet the majority of us take for granted that tomorrow we will wake up to another morning, another routine, another day in
I see these people all over the place –
Depressed, anxious, confused, confounded even –
And I see them, all uncertain, not knowing what will happen next
I see them trying to be brave or just accepting the fear
I see them breaking and then pretending not to be broken
I see them, and I have only three words:
First word: You
Second person pronoun, indicating the person to whom I am speaking
It’s every person, just as it is specific to the one, making no discernment between the two
Second word: Got
A word indicating possession, ownership, belonging
Also a word indicating inevitability;
In this case You must own, You must posse
Skies over San Angelo by a-la-douce-memoire, literature
Literature
Skies over San Angelo
There is something about you
I've never been able to capture in word or form;
an alluring resonance in the sadness
hidden behind your piercing blue eyes,
some immeasurable substance
caught in the dulcimer tune of your voice,
that tugs on my heartstrings
like a sea-eyed starlet pruning her melody from a harp:
A white velvet hurricane in a black satin dress
with hammers for hands and a stained glass smile,
the kind of beauty the moonlight clings to
and follows around at night;
Calypso's golden daughter-
a silver dagger in place of her tongue
and a smile pieced together from a leftover sunrise;
A sidewalk flower with the might of an oak
the tend