eloquence-fair

I Like People Who Make Lists: a brown velour tracksuit makeshift gear shifts taking honey from strangers i did these things you sent me a text that read "I <3 U" snappy rebuttals but there was no buts or ifs not today i dream about butts not today you always smiled at my little idiotsyncrasies thoughtfully and sincerely held out your tongue for a manly handshake and i ignore you and you don't really care and you tell rich white boiz the difference between whiskey and whisky and we try to hide the fact that a goblin ate your mother while three violin virtuoso cuties eat rhesus pieces from your belly button

listen: you are the judicial system of my anatomy. the following is a lesson on biology. when you speak your words form a bolus in the back of my throat and carries through my entire being; my ugly lungs and heart, my awful offals, until they germinate in my stomach and watermelon vines grow out of my mouth. when the sediment of your sentiments lodge in my aorta, capillaries, clog all my veins and vessels, your police state mouth will tell me, "you are now under cardiac arrest." when I pass on you will weep with furrowed brows and ask me, "shall I go on? shall I be happy? forget and move on? is my happiness your happiness?" and from the

You wake up. It’s morning and her eyes are brown. You had lost a pen last week and today you find it under the bed and the sight of it makes you cry tears of happiness, how lukewarm: You thought you'd never see it again. You think that the floor just looks so nice, SO cute and nice, and if you concentrate really hard you can picture chalk outlines of crime scenes and crying scenes: One of the outlines Looks Like Her. But actually, if you were to spell fall with a T it would be tfall, or TALL if you took out the f, like a tall person, but that doesn’t really apply at all, does it? You stop thinking about it and cry about

1. Night is when you notice she is missing from you the most: You called out for her but a bird answered, singing. 2. The empty spaces around you grows: you hope that you are shrinking. 3. Her funeral embedded a deep fear of hell in you and from then on you stopped asking for permission and started praying for mercy. Naked, she had knelt before you, believing you were God.

When you were eight years old you somehow got the idea that you were not beautiful; maybe it was the girls who told you so or the boys who didn't like you back or maybe it was the way your parents forgot to kiss you goodnight sometimes, I don't know, but either way you got that idea and you believed it for the next twelve years of your life, and probably to this day if you could. It took me three years to gather up the courage to tell you that you are, but then again it took me six years to pronounce specific; speficic, pesific, pacific – you were like that, many waters, tremendous; wet. Stormy. I still find myself saying spefic

When you were a young man you loved a girl; she was very skinny and had a small mouth. You had strange hair at that time but she loved you anyways. You liked her company in your big house and the patter of her feet on the kitchen floor and the way her breasts looked in her red dress so you married her. It was spring. They say you only love greatly once; now as an old man you think of her from time to time and wonder if she was your once, your Great Once⎯ no, not her, her legs were too thin and she smiled too often. You once yelled at her for smiling while you wrote ⎯ she smiled so loudly ⎯ and from then o

children made up most of the terminal ward. you moonlighted in foreign streets testing my patience while counting beds and meeting places. you summered in verse and combed your hair in prose but when the opportunity arose you found yourself in bars or arms of strange creatures who called themselves women except you; you called them children. things were like this you see: when i would leave your apartment on thursdays you often thought of lofts and open spaces while nursing toothaches and you proved it with the mortar and pestle of your hips, this was your diurnal motion. i wrote you a song in lowercase, titled it "PERENNIAL", and san

You take what you can get. You always find a way to make do. Your mother taught you that. Your mother drank wine through a straw. When you were fifteen, you watched her take down your father's hunting rifle from above the fireplace and shoot your dog, your best friend, that got run over by your neighbour's truck and had to be put down. When you were fifteen your mother held you as you cried about your dog, your best friend, that got run over by your neighbour's truck and had to be put down. She didn't say a word as you did but when you were fifteen, you caught her weeping in the middle of the night to your father, who apologized that she had

i can't seem to cry at funerals but i do cry buckets and buckets after bad hilary duff movies. they make me realize boys only like pretty girls and that makes me think awwwww fuckkkkk i'm not pretty!!! so then i think well at least i have a nice personality... but then i remember awwwww fuckkkkk i have a terrible personality!!! so then i think well at least i am a nice person... but then i remember awww fuckkk i'm a huge bitch!!! awwwwww fuckkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkk kkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkk kkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkk