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24 oz (The Fear)

Owl, TIMOP 3











Collecting in the bottom

bin in the fridge;

half empty cans

will find their home

in the pantry.

Bloodshot eyes

will find me at my best;

tearing me down to my worst.

Slurred words will

sting and cut

worse than any razor

ever could.

I fear I’ve lost all respect.

I fear I’ve lost all faith.

I fear your loss of control.

I fear your calloused hands;

their unforgiving grip.

I fear I have no one to turn to.

I fear our weakness;

accepting things we

shouldn’t have to.

Not this time,

and not ever again.

UNTITLED # 4

Owl, TIMOP 3
                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                       






I imagine

the taste of pennies

as I spot the clay mounds

poking through sodden

leaves and shoots of grass.

Willows sag under

the weight

of gun-metal clouds.



I run numb fingers

over lettering

set deep in stone.

First to last;

dates scatter

like gasps of breath.



In the waning light

shadows stretch taught over

headstones-- silent watchmen

as I continue on--

leaves stirring

in a living wake.

UNTITLED # 3

Owl, TIMOP 3






I want to ask her to put her cigarette out as she sits across from me; but instead watch her take a drag-- smoke pulled away from her in the soft breeze. She squints at my computer screen through the haze, voice rasps as she asks-- you a writer? I catch my bottom lip between my teeth, worrying the crack that has formed there. I never know what to say.    

UNTITLED # 2

Owl, TIMOP 3






You wish you could shred the paper and let the ink dissolve against your tongue. All you can see is his chapped lips mouthing the words "no," "like," and "friend." You string them together; bitterness rising, making your jaw ache. You turn on your heels and walk away-- leaving him swaying between parked cars. That's the summer you realize you like girls anyway.

UNTITLED #1

TIMOP2, cuddle cup



I forgot that other people could see this page...
Disclaimer: This was a writing exercise for a creative writing class I'm taking. Please do not take this @ face value; I'm okay- I promise.


I could have sworn that I was taught to keep my hands to myself at all times. So I cannot rightly explain why he has me pressed against the stairs; carpet biting into my skin as he weighs me down, knees pressing my thighs, a calloused hand squeezing my throat, my eyes caught by the fist he raises. I could have sworn that I was told to use an indoor voice, but I do not think that I can recall that as black and white dots swirl in a dervish outside my field of vsion as that hand comes down and connect to my eye. All you hear is the sickening smack and my silence. I want to ask him what have I done to deserve this as his bloodshot eyes sland and each hard breath washes me in the scent of Yellowtail-- my nails slip against his bicep; I was taught that girls shouldn't run.

Hugo

Owl, TIMOP 3
Pale eyes puncture as warm pennies are slipped into your hand. He wants to buy his own headband.

Today

Owl, TIMOP 3







Today is the day 
you wake
and feel as though
your bones will break
into shards-
perforating tender skin,
expose veins,
tendons,
ligaments...
everything held together
falling to pieces
again.

Today your eyes heat,
searing trails
of acidic rain-
etching marks
on hollow cheeks--
leaving ridges in its wake.

Today is that day --
skies that anemic 
type of blue
as dregs of air 
are pulled deep
into weary lungs-
white cloud bursts,
and you can never
catch your breath.

Today is the day--
people pass in blur
and you wonder 
when the hollow 
in your head will
be filled again...
why your heart 
won't stop aching,
why the world's 
imploding- and yet
you still hang on.

Today is that kinda day.

The Cuddle Cup...(Art Is Imperfection)

Owl, TIMOP 3
Cuddle Cup

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Owl, TIMOP 3
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