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Literature Text
thursdays are my favourite days because that’s how i grew up
with the taste of weekdays in my mouth and april braided in my hair
i had eyes the colour of june, and november laughter
i want you to love me like december, i want you
you see, i demand too much from the people who make my heart beat
i am high-maintenance and no-one wants a clock that can barely keep time
i am a season girl and you know me best.
you know me well enough to define me but god knows i could never define you
we all start out as poets. we all start out as words flitting from fingertips
like butterflies on this screen. our thighs are warm and these poetry-storehouse laptops
feel like a small piece of home perched on a humble tabletop, and the pieces of paper
and ink on our fingers that betrays how nauseous the word-vomit makes us sometimes
tell the world a story. we are alive because we write and we write because we are dying.
wednesdays are nightmares because they remind me that
pain hurts and that’s why we hate it, yet i’m so tired of feeling numb and hollow
like a broken guitar. sometimes i’m soaring and other times i’m souring
and i’m a bird perched on a lemon tree, but you tell me whether that means anything to you
i do not fly, i fall.
i want us to be neighbours
i want to call you on the landline and climb in through your window
i want to take you to the terrace and count stars with you
though i know we’ll only make it to some prime number that’s halfway impressive
and i’ll wonder if heaven tastes like this,
tastes like stars in a sky that i can never reach.
your words are an embrace.
i bury myself in your poetry
and i let your verses fit between the gaps of my ribs
i let your words lift me and carry me over
i let your words provoke me and i curl into them
sobbing saltwater funerals in an ironic comfort
because i can never feel numb when i’m thinking about us
i gave a speech on sappho at school the other day,
i showed a girl a poem about being in the closet and she smiled a little weirdly
and asked me whether i was lesbian
the word ‘bisexual’ was a scream that died in my throat
and left my mouth in a murmur.
i’ve forgotten what weekdays mean.
i wanted to write you a poem
but everything i write turns up queer and scattered
like someone filtered rainbows through sieves
and tried to illuminate these walls with them.
i wanted to write you something you’d treasure
but instead i spill my guts into this garden
and adorn them with wildflowers
someone told me i’d never be beautiful and i believed them.
i want to be worth your time,
not a regret, sweetheart.
fridays are few and far between,
and maybe the world needs more people like you and me
but i’m the clock who forgot to keep time,
the rechargeable battery in a power-cut household
the irony of a useful useless.
they’ll definitely remember you
but will they remember me
saturdays are a mouthful of broken promises
and all i can do is pray to all the gods we believe in
that we won’t end up like that, won’t end up broken-knuckled
and bleeding knees and fucked-up forevers,
won’t end in a tragic what could’ve been.
the three words
are
i don’t know.
i’m sorry, i’ve always been this way
these are the only three words i know
these three words are my only friends
there was never any love here.
darling, if it rains the most on sundays
i’ve forgotten my raincoat so all i’ll ever be
is drenched and cold, soggy paper with smeared dreams
and ink/mascara tears running down these cheeks.
love is just a hormone drowning in my bloodstream
but oh, the temples dedicated to aphrodite are everything i’ve never wanted
and you, i talk about you like you put the stars in the sky
because you put the stars on paper and that’s good enough for me.
with the taste of weekdays in my mouth and april braided in my hair
i had eyes the colour of june, and november laughter
i want you to love me like december, i want you
you see, i demand too much from the people who make my heart beat
i am high-maintenance and no-one wants a clock that can barely keep time
i am a season girl and you know me best.
you know me well enough to define me but god knows i could never define you
we all start out as poets. we all start out as words flitting from fingertips
like butterflies on this screen. our thighs are warm and these poetry-storehouse laptops
feel like a small piece of home perched on a humble tabletop, and the pieces of paper
and ink on our fingers that betrays how nauseous the word-vomit makes us sometimes
tell the world a story. we are alive because we write and we write because we are dying.
wednesdays are nightmares because they remind me that
pain hurts and that’s why we hate it, yet i’m so tired of feeling numb and hollow
like a broken guitar. sometimes i’m soaring and other times i’m souring
and i’m a bird perched on a lemon tree, but you tell me whether that means anything to you
i do not fly, i fall.
i want us to be neighbours
i want to call you on the landline and climb in through your window
i want to take you to the terrace and count stars with you
though i know we’ll only make it to some prime number that’s halfway impressive
and i’ll wonder if heaven tastes like this,
tastes like stars in a sky that i can never reach.
your words are an embrace.
i bury myself in your poetry
and i let your verses fit between the gaps of my ribs
i let your words lift me and carry me over
i let your words provoke me and i curl into them
sobbing saltwater funerals in an ironic comfort
because i can never feel numb when i’m thinking about us
i gave a speech on sappho at school the other day,
i showed a girl a poem about being in the closet and she smiled a little weirdly
and asked me whether i was lesbian
the word ‘bisexual’ was a scream that died in my throat
and left my mouth in a murmur.
i’ve forgotten what weekdays mean.
i wanted to write you a poem
but everything i write turns up queer and scattered
like someone filtered rainbows through sieves
and tried to illuminate these walls with them.
i wanted to write you something you’d treasure
but instead i spill my guts into this garden
and adorn them with wildflowers
someone told me i’d never be beautiful and i believed them.
i want to be worth your time,
not a regret, sweetheart.
fridays are few and far between,
and maybe the world needs more people like you and me
but i’m the clock who forgot to keep time,
the rechargeable battery in a power-cut household
the irony of a useful useless.
they’ll definitely remember you
but will they remember me
saturdays are a mouthful of broken promises
and all i can do is pray to all the gods we believe in
that we won’t end up like that, won’t end up broken-knuckled
and bleeding knees and fucked-up forevers,
won’t end in a tragic what could’ve been.
the three words
are
i don’t know.
i’m sorry, i’ve always been this way
these are the only three words i know
these three words are my only friends
there was never any love here.
darling, if it rains the most on sundays
i’ve forgotten my raincoat so all i’ll ever be
is drenched and cold, soggy paper with smeared dreams
and ink/mascara tears running down these cheeks.
love is just a hormone drowning in my bloodstream
but oh, the temples dedicated to aphrodite are everything i’ve never wanted
and you, i talk about you like you put the stars in the sky
because you put the stars on paper and that’s good enough for me.
Literature
defining wanderlust
i. and sometimes people just disappear.
they leave behind their exoskeletons
and don't look back;
sometimes i stumble upon their remains
and i dig up the rest of them.
and i learn that they liked lemongrass tea
and cirrus clouds
and greek mythology
and that they were sad but getting better
or that they weren't.
and sometimes i fall in love with people who have been gone for years
and sometimes i lie awake in the middle of the night
with their name like a song stuck in my head
who were you who were you who were you
where did you go
ii. and sometimes i want to disappear.
i want to run without worrying
about what's in front of or behind me;
i
Literature
I Ship Us
I can not measure our love
in words, but in how tight
we hug when we finally
see each other again. There
is starshine in your smile
and I could swear that you
are Aurora, wreathed in
beauty, but with less sleeping
and more ass-kicking.
You are kind and selfless,
a true paragon of love
and a goddess of all things
good. where most have blood,
you have eternal love.
all the light in the world
is simply not enough
to express the light
your friendship and
love bring to me.
Passion and excitement
exude from everything
that you do and you pour
your heart into; everything you
make, everything you touch.
When we first met, there wasn't
a doubt in
Literature
psychosomatic serenade.
Schrodinger has been writing me
love letters, and he hasn’t. he
catcalls me from closed boxes
while I flip coins trying to figure
out what’s breathing, what isn’t.
your coffin, floating in earthen
rivers, hinges gleaming iridescent
as salmon scales, I am sitting here
guessing if the cat is dead or alive
in that imaginary vacuum, ignoring
Pavlov’s set ringtone on my phone -
the bells make me think of your
throat, how your Adam’s apple
rang when you swallowed down
another of my placebo promises.
I love, loved, you. and I didn’t.
Freud keeps dropping business
cards through the letterbox asking
my mother t
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for calliopen 
hey karen it turned out a little sapphic, is that okay
but like, here's to the sapphic revolution <3
written on 4th July, 2016.
© a-girl-named-divine
hey karen it turned out a little sapphic, is that okay
but like, here's to the sapphic revolution <3
written on 4th July, 2016.
© a-girl-named-divine
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Why you erased all? What happened?