Compiled from the writers who shared work on March 12, 2015
How can I not collect you with all my other mistakes?
Like dust on furniture.
Pain concealed.
A piece of damp, dark cloth with a slightly sour smell.
The possibility of a forest within.
In black ink.
As I get older I realize that whatever is killing me makes me feel alive.
We stretch, we lengthen, we change.
Torture, torment,
Torture, torment,
Oh my heart, let thy will be done.
I'm thinking about you like
Harsh realities of the real world.
Just enough to make you sigh and not mind.
I had no problem with being protected.
Truth, slanted, was there,
dragging us all into its pit.
I know.
I crushed his little head.
Full of fire, though compelled by fear.
Can you picture not existing?
They always give you the one answer.
Breathing in shallow breaths of the opaque air,
Slipping into the inferno.
And then the warmth of solid ground.
It came so easy since birth.
They say it's called love.
Dance me through the panic 'til I'm gathered safely in,
True madness at last.
Pretending to be sickening, pretending to be lonely.
Existing in two realities is not healthy.
Listen. Give it a chance.
All the fun people are going to hell,
With no reason or warning to leave.
The sun rises and sets on your shoulder,
and on the inside.
Collect all the little details.
Compiled by Jessica Dixon
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