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Literature Text
we lived in matchstick houses and
licorice forests. you called me baby
and i called you sweetie, honey, dear.
you took my hand and lead me straight
into life lessons, like how to casually
throw in a cuss word, like a hello-smile.
you taught me that when people throw
orange peels, paper plates and axes at
you, it only means they love you.
i taught you what it really means to
be sedated emotionally, and how to win
a girl in fifteen steps.
spencer, it's okay to walk around
in a too-big shirt and eat two-week
old brownies.
spencer, you told me i would be prettier
with blue eyes, or green eyes, or any
color other than cinnamon.
that day i took over fifty photographs
of myself, and in each one i scribbled
over my eyes in
all the colors in the sky, except for fawn.
we used to sit on wooden benches in
public places, and share secret glances,
because i was the girl nobody liked, and
you were the boy everybody loved. maybe
that was why it could never have worked
out, if you really wanted to hold my hand.
(i think you were lying, though, and that
you just wanted to impress my pretend
cousin, judy. that wasn't really her name,
though, and she was not my cousin. we
were watching big-kid television shows,
like judge judy, in between putting on
movies about princesses, and happily-
ever-afters that could never happen to me)
if you really wanted to get close to me
i guess you could have called me, you had
the class phone number list.
you are a heartbreaker, and i think that i
am a long-term commitment.
spencer: don't try to fix me. i like
being broken, because broken things are
prettiest.
spencer: i like you with the kind of eyes
that you have.
spencer: i'm sorry that i'm not filled with
sunshine. i'm sorry that i always thought
that rainclouds were wonderful, and that i
couldn't capture the stars in my eyes and
my smiles.
we never could solve those matchstick problems,
without peeking at the answers, or looking at
the hints. the day that i found the chemical
formula for love, you decided that licorice
smells best when it is melted.
(i feel sorry for the gumdrop bluejays,
the paper planes and
sometimes i feel sorry for me.)
licorice forests. you called me baby
and i called you sweetie, honey, dear.
you took my hand and lead me straight
into life lessons, like how to casually
throw in a cuss word, like a hello-smile.
you taught me that when people throw
orange peels, paper plates and axes at
you, it only means they love you.
i taught you what it really means to
be sedated emotionally, and how to win
a girl in fifteen steps.
spencer, it's okay to walk around
in a too-big shirt and eat two-week
old brownies.
spencer, you told me i would be prettier
with blue eyes, or green eyes, or any
color other than cinnamon.
that day i took over fifty photographs
of myself, and in each one i scribbled
over my eyes in
all the colors in the sky, except for fawn.
we used to sit on wooden benches in
public places, and share secret glances,
because i was the girl nobody liked, and
you were the boy everybody loved. maybe
that was why it could never have worked
out, if you really wanted to hold my hand.
(i think you were lying, though, and that
you just wanted to impress my pretend
cousin, judy. that wasn't really her name,
though, and she was not my cousin. we
were watching big-kid television shows,
like judge judy, in between putting on
movies about princesses, and happily-
ever-afters that could never happen to me)
if you really wanted to get close to me
i guess you could have called me, you had
the class phone number list.
you are a heartbreaker, and i think that i
am a long-term commitment.
spencer: don't try to fix me. i like
being broken, because broken things are
prettiest.
spencer: i like you with the kind of eyes
that you have.
spencer: i'm sorry that i'm not filled with
sunshine. i'm sorry that i always thought
that rainclouds were wonderful, and that i
couldn't capture the stars in my eyes and
my smiles.
we never could solve those matchstick problems,
without peeking at the answers, or looking at
the hints. the day that i found the chemical
formula for love, you decided that licorice
smells best when it is melted.
(i feel sorry for the gumdrop bluejays,
the paper planes and
sometimes i feel sorry for me.)
Literature
maybe, i'm a metaphor.
its like im six years old again wrapping my fingers around someone elses hand. its as if im lost and i dont even care to be found. and its too bright out and the sun is sparking uncomfortably, igniting our bones under the skin. its like im sleeping on the sidewalk and its leaving indents against the side of my face and the backs of hands. but it wont matter in the morning since the world is on fire. and all i am is a held breath that wont put the flames out. or a rain cloud without the silver lining that will pour all this worry away.
its like im sixteen all
Literature
this probably isn't about you
this probably is about how the sun was on the opposite side of the sky when i woke up this morning. and how my name looks wrong every time i write it until it's gotten to the point that i'm not even sure how to spell it. it's about how everything has been flying out of my control so that i can't remember how to walk without making a sound. or how to hold on to the edges when my vision gets too blurry. this is almost certainly about how you live one and three fourth miles to the north of me, but i forgot and slept facing the south last night so now i just feel like i turned my back on you.
but really, this isn't about you.
it's about how i'v
Literature
we could be like venn diagrams
i fall down a lot
and while i'm laying back to the ground, somewhat starry-eyed with both my palms slightly grazed, i've been reduced to trying to explain the size of the sky to you. this is what i do when i have other things i should be saying but can't cough up right now. instead i'm mumbling about how the clouds have been wringing the bright blues of the sky dry with sapphire ribbons of raindrops for days. or about when you meet me at the shore and send shivers down my spine, all i can think about is how the sky never ends. i want to stand up and explain to you that i like my lightning without thunder and that i want whatever it is that's
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spencer: you only ever text me, and sometimes i forget what your voice sounds like.
spencer: i write poetry about you, and you don't know.
sometimes i pretend i am a princess from a faraway land, and that i deserve someone like you.
i think i am going to write more about matchstick houses.
spencer: i write poetry about you, and you don't know.
sometimes i pretend i am a princess from a faraway land, and that i deserve someone like you.
i think i am going to write more about matchstick houses.
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Comments19
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Wow, amazing. Really well written.