PuppeteerYou are far too sensitive.Puppeteer by WritingObsessed
perhaps if you didn’t cinch my waist,
gnaw on me with undying hunger,
until I wear away;
string my ribcage with cords,
hold me up like a puppet and—
I am only trying to make you better.
Stop thinking so much.
you play me like a broken piano,
curl your toes as my notes come out all wrong,
laugh as the trebles and clefts stumble over the page—
You are weak.
far too sensitive.
CountingI am 8 years old when ICounting by WritingObsessed
Discover the comfort in numbers.
My mother holds a kitchen knife up to
The man she once loved
And a table has 1, 2, 3, 4 legs.
She screams obscenities in a
Language I no longer understand
But the stairs are made up of 27 steps.
When my sister grabs my hand
And I stumble as she pulls me away
I clench my jaw tightly, 16 times.
I sit quietly in her room,
Eyes wide like two open windows,
And point at the five birds resting on the balcony railing
I am 8 years old,
But only 2 doors separate my naive mind
From the argument downstairs that would
Continue for the next 10 years.
RipplesI am captured by theRipples by WritingObsessed
ripples in the water.
In the way the water
holds my hand up,
the way the water pulls up
to meet my fingers when I
hold them closely to the surface,
like it is desperate to connect
to something, anything,
after going neglected in old and rusty pipes.
The way a body can sink to the bottom and
still find its way to the surface and
catch that final breath
just in time.
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It's been four yearsWhen you died, the world did not end.It's been four years by xXI-Feel-InfiniteXx
the tectonics did not collide and crumple upwards
leaving the continents a messy patchwork with mountain
ranges for crooked spines. The oceans did not evaporate
swelling in a heavy July sky, bursting in the wildest of summer
storms, hurricanes ripping through seaside towns like howling
ghosts, looking for someone no longer there. The winds did not
mourn in a wailing chorus, the lightning did not keep striking your
grave, pounding down with angry fists and a desperation that if it
hits hard enough, you will open the ground up and beat back with
thunderclap hands. Plagues did not fester and wars did not ripple
like Chinese whispers through the nations. When you died, the world
kept its steady pace, spinning on a tilted axis that told of many more
tragedies already endured. Beneath my feet, the mantle continued to
bubble, pressing its heat up like atlas holding you up from tumbling
in pieces into the earth, holding me up from crumbling like the headst
zero to one hundred.there was precisionzero to one hundred. by lizilicious
in the way your words cut
spaces i could never fill.
you raised volumes
to break me down
piece-wise and substitutable.
each fraction of me- creating
the illusion of adding up to one
cohesive whole. i have never been
complete: not when measured
by your standards.
the sandpaper texture of my throat
smoothing out the words to make-believe
i am strong enough to handle this.
i have learned that water can be just
like flames, with your vision blurred,
reliant on eyelids for temperature.
the corners still burn, sometimes.
i have begun as a mistake.
it is on the document that permits this-
tells me i need to stomach these thoughts
until i regurgitate them from the nausea
that comes with the sound of a calculation:
the figures don't add up to a number you'd like.
that mistake is my solace, the misspelling
an indication that i am not yours to invest.
an extra space telling me i have room to breathe-
you are not who i'm meant to turn into.
my lungs struggle from lack of space,
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