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Daily Deviation
Daily Deviation
July 18, 2014
drowning with him by back-bones is an impactful piece with solid imagery and a heart wrenching story.
Featured by HugQueen
Literature Text
there’s this boy i work with.
he is five.
he wears long sleeves
and shorts with holes in them
that are only kept together with
small clothespins and thin threads.
his hair is always cut close
to his skin, though his bangs are left
just long enough so it covers his eyes
and i know no one can see them.
but i always watch him.
only sometimes i will allow myself
to watch over someone else, even though i know
this boy will only continue to follow me.
he asks me to play,
he asks me to speak,
and sometimes, he even asks me
to hold his hand.
they are always cold and strong,
with calluses and chipped nails
that dig rough into my skin,
and his voice is always hard ice,
roaring like pounding hail through a storm.
but most of the time, he fights.
he hurts the other boys. they are small
and they fight over pieces of chalk,
over shovels and pales and who gets to play
on the swings, but they throw punches
like i’ve seen adults do.
sometimes i look at them
and i see the ripple of muscle,
the way their tiny voices
grow deep as they raise in volume,
their tongues flicking in anger
like they are pulling tiny triggers.
but nothing compares to when
he tells me, “i was angry. i wanted to hurt them,”
and for the moment he takes his eyes off
the ground, and i can see them through
his hair.
they say those you love
tell what they want to say
by what is left in their eyes,
and i’ve seen these eyes enough
to know they do not mean to say
anything.
these eyes are the color of
violent ocean waves, the kind that come
before a storm, that are lit dark
under the lack of sun and the constant,
yet far, emotionless beat of a lighthouse.
they only want me to drown with them.
this is why, when he holds my hand too tight,
when his hailstorm threatens to hover over me,
when the other boys cry as we walk away,
i do not ask him to let me go.
i can only imagine him drowning when i do so.
he is five.
he wears long sleeves
and shorts with holes in them
that are only kept together with
small clothespins and thin threads.
his hair is always cut close
to his skin, though his bangs are left
just long enough so it covers his eyes
and i know no one can see them.
but i always watch him.
only sometimes i will allow myself
to watch over someone else, even though i know
this boy will only continue to follow me.
he asks me to play,
he asks me to speak,
and sometimes, he even asks me
to hold his hand.
they are always cold and strong,
with calluses and chipped nails
that dig rough into my skin,
and his voice is always hard ice,
roaring like pounding hail through a storm.
but most of the time, he fights.
he hurts the other boys. they are small
and they fight over pieces of chalk,
over shovels and pales and who gets to play
on the swings, but they throw punches
like i’ve seen adults do.
sometimes i look at them
and i see the ripple of muscle,
the way their tiny voices
grow deep as they raise in volume,
their tongues flicking in anger
like they are pulling tiny triggers.
but nothing compares to when
he tells me, “i was angry. i wanted to hurt them,”
and for the moment he takes his eyes off
the ground, and i can see them through
his hair.
they say those you love
tell what they want to say
by what is left in their eyes,
and i’ve seen these eyes enough
to know they do not mean to say
anything.
these eyes are the color of
violent ocean waves, the kind that come
before a storm, that are lit dark
under the lack of sun and the constant,
yet far, emotionless beat of a lighthouse.
they only want me to drown with them.
this is why, when he holds my hand too tight,
when his hailstorm threatens to hover over me,
when the other boys cry as we walk away,
i do not ask him to let me go.
i can only imagine him drowning when i do so.
Literature
You Were Not An Aquarium Boy
Sea-glass became your bones,
brine your blood, and seashells
melded into your skin.
You were not quite an ocean
when you said "This is your sign to love me."
My body was like a building;
tall, cold, almost unbreakable.
I was metallic and sharp,
towering over your waters.
I remember taking your hand in mine,
conch and coral shells scrubbing
my skyscraper wrists, and laughing
about how one day you would
submerge every last bit of me.
Your lips, riddled with argonauts,
found my cheek and I cringed
at the coarseness.
You asked if they bothered me
and I finally told you "I
think I love you."
Literature
we shouldn't be so afraid of death
i waited for death to wrap his
frail hands around my neck and
feed me to the unknown
but he just took my hand, fingers
laced between my own
and smiled
Literature
poet, breathe now.
you
are
the
rain
fall
i anticipate to moisten my
arid arroyo. you re fresh me and i
confess oh, ho
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Wow. Amazing just amazing