#wtwrites

[schuylerpeck]

Dear Stranger,   It’s been a while since we’ve talked. I know the days keep coming like the dam broke and I’ve used all my fingers to try to stop it. We’ve got time wading around our ankles.   How have you been these days? I think of you when the moon is round and full; how so few things can escape from being touched by it. Whether you’d like to admit it or not, you’re like that, too. So far away and knowing. So quiet and glowing.   I know, at some point, I will have to end these ramblings, this self-talk to a stranger, but it won’t be today. I will keep writing until you know that you’re never too much, never unnoticed, never not thought about.   So, ‘til we meet or miss each other again,   Yours.

Schuyler Peck, I Wrote This For You (3/30)

[fragmentedpoetry]

I wrote a thing! #wtwrites #day6 #nationalpoetrymonth

[filter-kaapi]

‘If the wound is where the light enters, how do you heal?’ {From @wintertangerine ‘s prompt}

for @divzybxtch

[mga-antigong-salita]

my body - a hall of scars

full of disgrace,

disgust

and broken trusts;

remember when,

you gave me one?

you promised me it won’t be visible

to everyone

but it was clear to all

even without the help of the sun.

my body - a hall of scars

but it is where

the truth sailed

under the glistening stars;

where i can only grasp the beacon of light

when a part of me is shed.

[greekgodoftragedy]

she stayed up late for him, the moon has become her good friend, smiling at her like Cheshire, as if he knows a secret she doesn’t, and maybe he does. the stars twinkle, encouraging her to open her eyes. she’d sneak a cup of coffee to her room, downing it in big gulps, hoping that it’d keep her awake. she waited and cried when he didn’t come. she smiled madly when he did come, 5 hours later. yes, the moon did know a secret she didn’t know. she couldd write pages of poetry, long strings of sentences, and palaces of paragraphs about him, for him. and yet, he couldn’t even write her a one-paragraph letter. she clings to him like life support, when he was live wire. she loved him dangerously, risking everything just for him. she has risked everything. and so here we are now. she will not be missed.

-- elegy to the part of me who loved him endlessly (tel, 2018)

[aninsomniacsink]

This Body, an Open Wound

There is nothing about these fever hands that suggests healing,

too many icicles beneath my nails to ever scratch the word cured

onto anything but a piece of paper.

God forbid these freckles spread like a rash down my spine.

How many times can my throat close around a word

until we label it as sick.

How shallow these arms are,

How swollen these eyes are

with all they have seen

and all they have dreamed.

This skin so full of every little ghost caught in my eyelashes,

every shadow I tried to wrench from my chest before it  

made a home in my memories like a nest of spiders

spinning their tiny webs tighter around my wrists.

And still,

there is nothing about these fever hands that suggests

we are any closer to healing these wounds in our palms,

any closer to sliding the collarbones from the nape  of our necks

and stitching this body back

to where it began.

[myrealityishere]

16/30 is my new favorite from this challenge <3

[vatofrain]

4.1.18

WRITE AN ODE TO YOUR HEART

here’s to you. you frightened monster. you may be a fuck up but at least your mistakes come cheap. you ghastly void. you try to hold things bigger than your size and the stretch makes you ugly. here’s to you. you hideous thatch of light. you curl of ink in water on the shoulder beneath the skin. you raise a glass to your mouth and drain the amber liquid before it can be snatched away. always all in. always afraid. so here’s to you: you patient motherfucker. you coil of spine. you desperate snarl. here’s to you. the whole fist of you.