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Literature Text
there's a boy down the street
who strums songs on his guitar that
you wish you couldn't hear.
who's being flooded under the waves
of his own paper tears
because
he wishes there was someone
who would just listen.
apparently, wishing on
captured dragonflies
isn't going to work anymore.
+
one day, he decided to
cut paper hearts out of that
old construction paper he had left
hidden
in the back of his closet.
not until after he had
a decent pile of lopsided hearts
scattered around him
did he realize
that there really was no point
to what he was doing.
there never was.
+
snow is one of the few things
he can still enjoy.
white flakes that taste
like pure happiness
fall into his ghost breath.
he doesn't know they're cold
because he confuses
them with the warmth
that always rises in his stomach.
that's when he realizes
why he cut out all those hearts.
+
now they cling
onto the bare branches
outside,
suspended by paperclips
and kept company
by a million pure white wishes
that continue to float
quietly to earth.
who strums songs on his guitar that
you wish you couldn't hear.
who's being flooded under the waves
of his own paper tears
because
he wishes there was someone
who would just listen.
apparently, wishing on
captured dragonflies
isn't going to work anymore.
+
one day, he decided to
cut paper hearts out of that
old construction paper he had left
hidden
in the back of his closet.
not until after he had
a decent pile of lopsided hearts
scattered around him
did he realize
that there really was no point
to what he was doing.
there never was.
+
snow is one of the few things
he can still enjoy.
white flakes that taste
like pure happiness
fall into his ghost breath.
he doesn't know they're cold
because he confuses
them with the warmth
that always rises in his stomach.
that's when he realizes
why he cut out all those hearts.
+
now they cling
onto the bare branches
outside,
suspended by paperclips
and kept company
by a million pure white wishes
that continue to float
quietly to earth.
Literature
march.
i knew march.
birds chirped
beneath
my hands,
their bones
snapped
like ashen twigs.
i remained bare,
purpose not suffered
by adornments.
may was the missing
piece, his face
purple, touched
too hard by the angels.
i did not understand.
but i knew march
and it was enough.
be my silence; my sanctuary,
she sang.
but i could not be brave.
my arms did not reach god.
Literature
Your Constellations
I'm falling into your constellations
wishing on the crook of your neck
that you would fall in love with me.
I've been stuck in your galaxy for
so long now
I can't bear the thought of losing you.
But you're not mine to lose,
are you?
I'm wasting all my time
holding onto someone who
isn't holding onto me.
But if I had a choice
I'd rather live in the dark with you
than try to forget what it feels like to be
wrapped in your arms.
Literature
Confabulation
It's terrible what I did, and I know that. I should have just returned the book to her. Steal a girl's diary and watch the processes of her brain work in snapshots. You'll catch glimpses of her life—see the most intimate relationship someone can have with their memory. I read her diary from beginning to end—from the sunrise of her thoughts to that recurring dream she had last night, the one where she kept waking up only to find she was still dreaming.
She limits how much of herself she'll expose to someone. It's like her eyes specifically go to her
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copyright © 2010 victoria rose
copyright © 2010 victoria rose
© 2010 - 2024 Malinda-Rose
Comments20
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I love the way you describe him. (: Melancholy.