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Daily Deviation
Literature Text
the first time I caught sight of your
glistening, marble eyes,
I decided you disgust me.
I hate you the way I hate perfection:
merciless, like the snap of mantis jaws.
every fact of you is pretentious,
held high like you raise a middle finger.
You, the artist, always sculpting things,
tried to squeeze my malleable heart like white clay
and stash it in your pocket to rattle with stones.
paint me an unflinching self portrait, my dear:
this skyscraper of a boy shaking with anticipation
to build and destroy, build and destroy.
you sink in tooth and talon at first mention of beauty,
love-biting Aphrodite as though you were equals.
you're a statue, a prison,
a tasteless reproduction of a child's Heaven
but you are no museum.
you may hang yourself in gilded frames,
forcing masses to silence with obscurity,
but that does not make you a hallowed hall.
no, I fear you're no Metropolitan.
you look at me, daring to think you understand.
your words trickle from my lips like a waterfall
as you tell me what a strange and marvelous Chimera I am.
your voice scratches at my spine, persistent, but
I've long since lost feeling in these flimsy balsa bones.
you think I'm your tangled marionette, a plaything
you awkwardly stitched long ago,
but I'm here to prove you wrong:
I tied myself up and hung from the rafters
a hundred times before I felt your touch.
today, I write you my goodbye letter.
you never suspected that your Pinocchio girl
could pick up scissors and cut herself free.
you were too busy playing god to notice.
the farther I run from your twisted lunatic asylum,
the more I realize that you're no Louvre.
you sad boy, you're no museum.
glistening, marble eyes,
I decided you disgust me.
I hate you the way I hate perfection:
merciless, like the snap of mantis jaws.
every fact of you is pretentious,
held high like you raise a middle finger.
You, the artist, always sculpting things,
tried to squeeze my malleable heart like white clay
and stash it in your pocket to rattle with stones.
paint me an unflinching self portrait, my dear:
this skyscraper of a boy shaking with anticipation
to build and destroy, build and destroy.
you sink in tooth and talon at first mention of beauty,
love-biting Aphrodite as though you were equals.
you're a statue, a prison,
a tasteless reproduction of a child's Heaven
but you are no museum.
you may hang yourself in gilded frames,
forcing masses to silence with obscurity,
but that does not make you a hallowed hall.
no, I fear you're no Metropolitan.
you look at me, daring to think you understand.
your words trickle from my lips like a waterfall
as you tell me what a strange and marvelous Chimera I am.
your voice scratches at my spine, persistent, but
I've long since lost feeling in these flimsy balsa bones.
you think I'm your tangled marionette, a plaything
you awkwardly stitched long ago,
but I'm here to prove you wrong:
I tied myself up and hung from the rafters
a hundred times before I felt your touch.
today, I write you my goodbye letter.
you never suspected that your Pinocchio girl
could pick up scissors and cut herself free.
you were too busy playing god to notice.
the farther I run from your twisted lunatic asylum,
the more I realize that you're no Louvre.
you sad boy, you're no museum.
Literature
Sundiver
i.
When I was six a phoenix
tried to drown me.
Underwater I grabbed for fire.
Like Icarus, I was reaching
towards the sun.
I hope he still has
bald spots. I hope he still
cradles searing scars.
He was death,
I was the bird.
ii.
My uncle knows plastic-
wrapped soaps as well
as he knows fine wines.
If he drinks enough,
he thinks it’s love-
carved names rubbing
the silver drain smooth. Diver: 28 days
sweating, ship black against
sea. Like it had been peeled
from amber tongues.
iii.
On my fifteenth birthday, the boy
with stars on his fists and Saturn’s
rings in his eyes told me I was pretty.
It was the first time
anyone had
Literature
how to tell me my scars are beautiful.
leave roses with thorns on my stairwell, the kind
that would entice me when i was fourteen but now
serve as silent irritation—when we eat steak, use
your thinnest, sharpest knife to cleave the meat
into tiny squares and let me watch you wash it
and put it away when you’re done—open your
packages with your trusty pocket knife, peter
pan boy scout, and when i move in, let me
borrow it; don’t question the t-shirts i order
in winter and the sweatshirts i order during the
sweltering heat of summer—when i lay beside you
at night and talk about the state of the universe
that day, nibble on my ear, scratch my arm, sl
Literature
Nourishment
“So your dad isn’t really your dad?”
“I have no evidence either way. Therefore, it is unwise to make a conclusion.” I frown at the tip of my pencil. “How do you spell your name?”
“X-U-A-N.” He glances at my paper. “Are you… making a list?”
“I don’t know why you make it sound so insensible, but yes.” I write Xuan next to a bullet point and make another point.
Do I have another point? I hadn’t even finished my toffee before the man who is not my father approached me.
Well, that means the toffee is still in my lunchbox, and I can have two toffee
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A practice invective poem that I wrote in my slam poetry club. I haven't performed it yet, but I plan to...if I can work up the nerve! I'm actually fairly proud of this poem, which is weird for me. I won't say who this is about, but interestingly enough, when I read it to my mother she guessed it on her first try. She knows me so well.
If you liked this, let me know! I love your feedback!
EDIT: DEAR SWEET BABY JESUS. A DAILY DEVIATION? Now I'm really feeling confident enough to read it to the club...I'm dumbfounded. I LOVE YOU GUYS SO MUCH.
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