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Literature Text
We brew cups of tea and remember them thirty minutes later. The water is still warm when we pull out the teabag, but the liquid is thick and smells bitter. We drink it anyway;the syrupy liquid coats our throats and stains our stomachs. We drink it anyway, since we took the time to make it.
We figure they are like that; bitter, forgotten cups of tea that we invested so much time in making. (We even give them names: Earl Grey, Peppermint, Breakfast Blend, and Chamomile.)
Chamomile was the first to go, clipping the hair above his ears, buttoning himself up inside a black pea coat, tying it all up with a noose-like scarf around his neck.
Inside we mourned, but outside we laughed about how silly this all was. As if the way he wore his hair determined his newfound spite. As if the pea coat was a rite of passage, a ticket to better things.
But then Breakfast Blend, Peppermint, and Earl Grey followed, sweeping locks of hair beneath the rug and buttoning four years inside their pea coats. (It’s the buttoning that kills.) They finish off with a scarf, like a bow on a Christmas present. They burn us with their tongues and make us cry with their taste, but we hold onto them anyway, since we took the trouble to make them.
We figure they are like that; bitter, forgotten cups of tea that we invested so much time in making. (We even give them names: Earl Grey, Peppermint, Breakfast Blend, and Chamomile.)
Chamomile was the first to go, clipping the hair above his ears, buttoning himself up inside a black pea coat, tying it all up with a noose-like scarf around his neck.
Inside we mourned, but outside we laughed about how silly this all was. As if the way he wore his hair determined his newfound spite. As if the pea coat was a rite of passage, a ticket to better things.
But then Breakfast Blend, Peppermint, and Earl Grey followed, sweeping locks of hair beneath the rug and buttoning four years inside their pea coats. (It’s the buttoning that kills.) They finish off with a scarf, like a bow on a Christmas present. They burn us with their tongues and make us cry with their taste, but we hold onto them anyway, since we took the trouble to make them.
Literature
Oh, the Irony
"You don't know anything!"
"I know."
Literature
oh baby please, don't go.
i.
you're half-awake, entangled in the covers and he's nowhere near you. groggy, disoriented and very much hating life, you stumble to the door of your room and wrench it open, only to see a vast expanse of sky and nothing else below. you blink twice before you feel your stomach heave. you never knew you had a fear of heights.
ii.
when it finally dawns on you that your room is hovering somewhere in the atmosphere, you settle down on the edge of your bed and wonder if you're dead. in all honesty, you wouldn't mind being dead. besides, there's nothing to live for, is there? you look at the corner of the bedspread that you've been playing wit
Literature
don't look back - oh.
before the
before, face it,
there were faces indelible,
the viscosity of
tar in his voice...
tar on his coarse fingers;
like everywhere
in everything
there was the sacred drunkard illuminating
a way...
when i hid by the bucket and
nettle brushed my shoulder, the poison
was slow;
(in reality, he
ran his cows over with a tractor and there
the sacredness should have ended;
didn't;
before the before there was gnarled bark
off unidentified trees
whispering by the river,
rough to the touch
i would spread out my fingers
fascinated by the splinters
now it is morning and i re
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