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Literature

the sound of a tuning orchestra

audiation is the mental construction of sound in the midst of silence. have you ever laid in the heart of a tuning orchestra? felt metal stretch itself taut over lacquered wood like telephone wires lining state borders. noticed the conductor but not his face, realized the ghost of sound, how we imagine noise long after its disappearance. the first time you told me my voice felt like home, i did not speak for weeks. i was too afraid to destroy something i accidentally created. on the nights my muscle spasms simply refuse to stop and you are just too caught up in dreaming to bend me back to normal, i reconstruct your breath and mouth an

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i am a goat

Mar 9, 2014

these waves of inexplicable sadness wash over me whenever i think about him. i see traces of him in every poem, every song, every movie, every book; maybe i'm looking for him, maybe i'm just so in love that i can't help but find him everywhere. maybe that means he's lost, you know, if i keep finding him in the oddest places. not lost in the sense that he doesn't know where he is, but in the sense that he doesn't know where he is going. so he keeps showing up in beautiful lines of poetry or in deep song lyrics or today during the SAT, the last question on my test was about goats and for the strangest reason, i found myself finding him in it. s

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the sound of a tuning orchestra by learningtobefree, literature

Literature

the sound of a tuning orchestra

When It Rains by Riorlyne, literature

Literature

When It Rains

I think of you, when it rains. Don’t you remember The fickle breezes Spattering droplets in our faces, How a great gust carried off your Donald Duck umbrella And we chased it, Across the square, across the park, Where it finally caught In the rosebushes. One of the ribs was broken But I laughed And laughed because it made Donald’s tail droop, Until you were laughing too. I don’t know how we didn’t even Notice that my hands were bleeding from the thorns Until we were halfway home. You asked me if it hurt— Of course it did, But it didn’t matter— Besides, I just can’t cry with raindrops running d

Small Talk by Kaefullness, literature

Literature

Small Talk

It's dripping with logic and reason the question you let gently drop onto the table between us, “So, tell me about your life.” And I'm watching it carefully telling myself it won't bite it's more scared of me than I am and I can capture it with glass. And I can't rest the answer there because it's bigger and scarier and this one will bite will sink will tear apart the careful stitches. It's too big for this table and I can't put it onto you so it weighs heavy on my neck and the silence stretches further.

under the unders by learningtobefree, literature

Literature

under the unders

lately i’ve been under the unders, which is to say lately i’ve been hosting the ghosts of everything i’ve ever loved and that silence gets to you, you know, it tears you like the idea of something horrific and before you know it, your entire existence is a fresco of maybes and apologies and snapped skulls and by snapped skulls, i am alluding to the notion that this sterile noise, this silence, drives you crazy. once, a man told me that boredom has its holy uses and i laughed at him and the rush of nostalgia that immediately followed was the worst melancholy, let me tell you, it was like feeling each of your trillio

my father lived in India by learningtobefree, literature

Literature

my father lived in India

my father is a man of many colors. on the nights when the moon stays asleep, he lotions his palms with pomegranate juice. the sugared blood pools in the creases of his skin, staining it India’s red. sometimes, my father scrubs his hands until they are nothing but flesh & fruit rinds. when he was younger—all skinned knees and pocket knives—he must've slipped on a thousand marbles. my father’s father was a welder who rolled and spun steel into tiny spheres. when he died, my father’s hands became blue and free of pocket knives. to this day, he keeps a bag of marbles on our mantle. from time to time, he s

metronomes by learningtobefree, literature

Literature

metronomes

i have a nervous habit of ghost-writing words in cursive when people shout them at me. it all started when my father taught me how to lose track of time, that a moment multiplied into a million is just a minute rolling itself into an hour and before we know it, every year is stuck in caps lock. ridiculous i curl it into my left palm with my right index finger and practice spatial reasoning as Einstein once did, how he built a vast sea of experience they say that music is the universal language. tell me, does every room have a tuner or a clock? our metronomes tick in time most don't have enough but i've always known a surplus. what d

to kill a butterfly by learningtobefree, literature

Literature

to kill a butterfly

for Lindsey for as long as i can remember, my friend Lindsey has been in love with Peter Pan. on a night of pill bottles and pale skin, Peter visited her hospital room and the green fringes of his kid-clothes tickled her nose as he glided around the ceiling. no one knows that Peter actually likes school. it’s where they taught him how clouds feel on your back, the difference between young and small, the way it looks a lot like scratches. Lindsey carved a map of Neverland into her wrists with box cutter slashes. the winding valleys and mermaid lagoons weren’t war paint, just battle cries and bad decisions. Peter Pan taught

my lover went to Japan by learningtobefree, literature

Literature

my lover went to Japan

mu-onna moans into my lover's ear the song of her witchcraft. i can hear his soft coo back, his slick wrist maneuvering the way only men do. mu-onna is the nothing woman. my lover's neck burns crimson when i'm with him and evaporates at her touch. ghost, she is, like lost soul or misplaced matter. mu-onna, the walls call. seep back into our hollow creases. on a night made of confessions and no control, i found her on my lover's tongue. her blood had veined its way into his words and i, in a frenzy of blinks & sterile noise, strangled mu-onna out of his skin. when she fleets through a room, a window breaks inaudibly, a door cre

the garden family by learningtobefree, literature

Literature

the garden family

my father met my mother on the train tracks leading out of Hackensack, New Jersey. she was clad in blue and embossed with blisters; he was wearing a black sweater and had a stumbling tongue. the night they exchanged promises, the moon was hiding under a cool blanket of factory smoke. my mother wore a black n’ beige dress, my father was decked in the finest leather shoes. their love was a budless stem: to appreciate it, you had to do some gardening. the botany of our family is complicated. i am a shovel and my brother is soil. my mother is a watering hose and my father sets with the sun. come winter, she will freeze in time and

wednesday's child by sootandcinders, literature

Literature

wednesday's child

it is the third of october and i am building a castle for us out of feathers, bird bones, ocean waves and library book pages. anything to keep our feet from touching the ground. you are sin, he whispers and his fingers trail cold fire down my side, scorching flesh and freezing bone; brittle pieces of me shatter as they hit the stained linoleum floor. don't wake me from this nightmare. i whisper a nursery rhyme as i walk down our autumn path. kamikaze leaves fall, trailing fire as they throw themselves from the branches, down, down, to cold pavement below. your words echo in my mind a constant reminder that i am sin but you, you were ne

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