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Literature Text
Voyeur to the Kiss
-------------------
Alec Maynard
Elegant, she dances delicately
in front of me, flaunting.
My blood boils
I hear them mutter, "It's him."
His footfalls resound upon the stairs,
my blood froths.
Larger, taller, more handsome,
with frumpy emo hair,
he draws her close.
Thick fingers run along her jaw,
I bear witness,
passion in a refined exchanged;
salvation in saliva.
My blood comes to boil.
I'm sat in silence; glaring, hating, seething,
utterly helpless, broken.
-------------------
Alec Maynard
Elegant, she dances delicately
in front of me, flaunting.
My blood boils
I hear them mutter, "It's him."
His footfalls resound upon the stairs,
my blood froths.
Larger, taller, more handsome,
with frumpy emo hair,
he draws her close.
Thick fingers run along her jaw,
I bear witness,
passion in a refined exchanged;
salvation in saliva.
My blood comes to boil.
I'm sat in silence; glaring, hating, seething,
utterly helpless, broken.
Literature
Twenty: I'm afraid I'm growing old
i.
Coupons and sales magazines
have become more than just junk mail
and the holes in my pants
seem more patchable
and I wonder just how much
my sparse jewelry would fetch
if I said I saw the face of Jesus
in the glimmer of my pearls.
ii.
I am beginning to miss the sea I grew up on
so much that I will read bad poetry
just for the mention of a salty ocean breeze.
I feel landlocked and sometimes I'm afraid
that I will never see the world
until I have retired from it.
iii.
Faith says her life is full of asking.
I wish mine were full of answers,
but I too have many questions
and only Time will answer them for me.
iv.
My mothe
Literature
Epitaph for an Old Italian Woman
We walk into the apartment building. The building for old people.
It smells like old people.
We silently take the elevator to the second floor; her room is 205. Mom has the key, so she opens the door. The apartment is so empty. No little old ladies with white hair and a waggling crooked finger.
Empty.
There's still newspaper on the floor by the door. Mom and I remove our shoes and put them on the newspaper, lest her ghost throw shoes at us. Or, maybe, hit us with a broom. She never did it to me, but Mom says she used to.
The pantry is full of food; mostly Fig Newtons. We always brought her Italian cookies when we came to visit, bu
Literature
no wonder it took him 1455 pages
when i was seven years old, a group of kids in my grade threw rocks at me for liking neopets more than webkinz. from then on, i was convinced i knew what hatred meant. but i don’t know how to describe it to the little girl who sits in the corner of my womb and in ten years might call me mommy and ask for help on dividing the world into black and white.
would i point to the churches with their bigotry? to the cotton fields of the south in the 1800s? to the classrooms of modern day america? would i tell her about how the jews stood in straight lines, waiting to die, with fear in their eyes and faith in their hearts? or would i try and de
Suggested Collections
The jealousy of another kissing your unrequited love.
Written, age 19.
Written, age 19.
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