#micro poetry

[willowflame1996]

Sometimes the data does not support the catastrophe.

[dyst0pianuniic0rn]

17 and Floating

I never rehearsed a future with me in it.

Relationships were a foreign currency;

I only mapped the geometry of my absence—

what my parents would inherit,

which fraction of my ghost my friends would keep.

Once, I memorized them framing a casket.

I traced their grief across my static, blue skin,

wondering if they would hold a hand already turning to clay,

searching for words standard text could never hold.

Yet, here is seventeen.

A milestone arriving like an uninvited guest.

“What a time to be alive,” the chorus echoes,

while I learn the slow, strange leisure

of surviving into an older skin.

Still, the old math haunts the marrow.

The quiet hazard of the box, the looming annual clock,

counting down another birthday I must endure—

a spectrum blurring into the background.

Expired at thirteen, yet walking through the noise.

A hollow vessel navigating the crosswalks,

carrying the weight of a premature epitaph,

perfectly fluent in the art of vanishing.

There is a heavy, velvet current at the edge,

an invitation to stop treading water in the dark.

To let the heavy wool of living sink,

trading the sharp, chaotic friction of the breath

for the clean, permanent symmetry of stone.

Notes : My birthday is in a few hours; I thought to write this.

[dyst0pianuniic0rn]

Alchemy

When my lips part,

the vibrations humming in the hollow of my throat echo outward.

I marvel at the internal alchemy—

How shifting geometries of sound warp and weaveinto language,

Spinning breath into something beautiful.

Notes- I've been really really busy with everything, so here's a short poem

[willowflame1996]

I did not just survive you—I outgrew you.

[willowflame1996]

Your olive branch is actually nightshade.

[willowflame1996]

I had nothing to give... And yet you still took from me.

[willowflame1996]

I pour my soul into pixels.

[dyst0pianuniic0rn]

The Sharp Edge

I brought my bruised knees to the kitchen floor,

expecting hands to soothe away the sting,

but only found the slamming of a door,

and anger heavy as a broken wing.

Her words came down like gravel in a gale,

reproaching me for taking up her space,

as if my quiet tears had made her fail,

as if my very breathing was disgrace.

She didn't reach to pull me to her chest;

she counted up the debts I put her through,

and told me I was nothing but a pest who broke the

only peace she ever knew.

The comfort that a mother ought to hold was twisted into needles and a knife.

I stood outside,

rejected in the cold,

repaying her for giving me my life.