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Literature Text
i swear to god,
that boy looks at me
like i spilled all of the stars into his sky,
and i look at him
like he's painted every sunset and sunrise.
right now, i'm hundreds and hundreds of miles
and a time zone away from his smile,
and i'm trying not to miss him too much
so i can live in the moment but
it's hard when i want all of my moments
to be filled with him.
that boy looks at me
like i spilled all of the stars into his sky,
and i look at him
like he's painted every sunset and sunrise.
right now, i'm hundreds and hundreds of miles
and a time zone away from his smile,
and i'm trying not to miss him too much
so i can live in the moment but
it's hard when i want all of my moments
to be filled with him.
![[OPEN] Pride Adoptable Character #19](https://images-wixmp-ed30a86b8c4ca887773594c2.wixmp.com/f/beeedec4-86a3-43a7-aec6-600a32d11b35/dfyzcja-61247f82-f082-49ab-82ef-24cf967f9ada.png/v1/fill/w_350,h_350,q_70,strp/_open__pride_adoptable_character__19_by_adopt_verse_dfyzcja-350t.jpg?token=eyJ0eXAiOiJKV1QiLCJhbGciOiJIUzI1NiJ9.eyJzdWIiOiJ1cm46YXBwOjdlMGQxODg5ODIyNjQzNzNhNWYwZDQxNWVhMGQyNmUwIiwiaXNzIjoidXJuOmFwcDo3ZTBkMTg4OTgyMjY0MzczYTVmMGQ0MTVlYTBkMjZlMCIsIm9iaiI6W1t7InBhdGgiOiJcL2ZcL2JlZWVkZWM0LTg2YTMtNDNhNy1hZWM2LTYwMGEzMmQxMWIzNVwvZGZ5emNqYS02MTI0N2Y4Mi1mMDgyLTQ5YWItODJlZi0yNGNmOTY3ZjlhZGEucG5nIiwiaGVpZ2h0IjoiPD02MDAiLCJ3aWR0aCI6Ijw9NjAwIn1dXSwiYXVkIjpbInVybjpzZXJ2aWNlOmltYWdlLndhdGVybWFyayJdLCJ3bWsiOnsicGF0aCI6Ilwvd21cL2JlZWVkZWM0LTg2YTMtNDNhNy1hZWM2LTYwMGEzMmQxMWIzNVwvYWRvcHQtdmVyc2UtNC5wbmciLCJvcGFjaXR5Ijo5NSwicHJvcG9ydGlvbnMiOjAuNDUsImdyYXZpdHkiOiJjZW50ZXIifX0.dbQ7A-YXrKlk17g-RJDNkYm6SEzKB5iiHEF4afRaZCU)
Literature
kids cut through the middle
when you spend a summer somewhere
where people squirrel away their
ugly children, it's hard not to notice
the subtle strain of the truth
on certain smarter faces,
or the absolute oblivion
in certain spinning eyes
and stumbling legs.
--
i met a girl named K,
just K,
with ankles like a deer and a voice
loud like noise and swampy like a swamp.
she liked orange foods and big words and
her hands shook like the girls in jazz class.
K clicked her tongue between words sometimes
but nobody ever mentioned it. her socks
were alphabetized. she carried a comb in her back pocket
but only 'cause she needed it, she said.
her hair was turning
Literature
brown eyes are hard to romanticize.
"the more i think of our childhood the more i can read in his eyes, oh god his eyes, those warm brown soothing eyes, all steady and dependable like the bark of a tree or wooden floors or that treehouse his father made for us when we were six. i think of his sister’s rooftop garden and the pretty flowers that grew all in knots and braids; roses, chrysanthemums, ivy, marigold, peonies and bluebells all spilling over and outlining the horizon standing all polychromatic against the sky- and i think that without the rich brown soil all gathered in terracotta flowerpots they wouldn’t have developed half as well, they would be haggard wi
Literature
Broken Children, Precious Things
We came back wrong - or, at least, that's what they tell us.
Teeth just a hint too sharp. Mouths that don't close right. Limbs and spines that twist and lock in ways that human bodies were never meant to move - or, rather, that their bodies never do. And, under our fingernails, locked tight inside soft skin and all-too-human flesh, the claws.
We came back wrong. Not the human children who were taken, who'd never bite and scratch, never raise their voices, never embarrass them like this in public when everyone is staring do you want them to think you're mad?
We came back wrong. Which is to say, to some of them, we came back at all.
Suggested Collections
far away and missing you.
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Comments28
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Very emotional, but very accurate. Nice work!