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I miss falling asleep effortlessly. I miss waking up and not feeling a hint of dread or weariness. I miss swing sets and lunch boxes. I miss looking at the clock and not worrying about deadlines. I miss how my ABC’s weren’t about how well I write my essays or if I know the difference between an isotope or an isomer. I miss buying clothes without thinking about how I will be perceived when I wear them. I miss playdates and Kodak pictures. I miss parts of the old me. I miss snippets of the past.
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I have this fascination with eyes.
I’m enthralled at the different shades,
especially at how they tailor to emotions.
The two pools of tranquil seas
become the midnight skies during thunderstorms
or the jet-black ink of a bleeding pen
when anger grips the heart.
During moments of unbound happiness,
brown isn’t just brown;
rather the eyes melt into a blend of shimmering gold,
celestial copper, and molten amber.
Some have two emerald jewels,
and they sometimes change to a bottle green
or patches of dark moss.
There’s also ebony and velvet,
icy and aquamarine,
honey and chestnut,
jade and sea green.
There’s also the fact that
they’re supposedly windows to the soul.
They reveal what lays beneath our skin and bones.
Nestled in our eyes
are emotions that we often try to hide.
Whether we’re too scared or too battered or too lost,
our eyes betray our minds and our hearts.
(NJ.)
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If you leave someone at least tell them why, because what’s more painful than being abandoned; is knowing you’re not worth an explanation.


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You didn’t show up.
I kept waiting.
— I Had a Dream About You (Richard Siken)
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I am in love with a boy
who ripped me apart
to keep himself warm.

We open ourselves like thick oak doorways,
draw out the welcome mats
with years of dust and dirt ingrained.
My eyes are windows,
he pulls the shades shut.
Everyone carries around something
ancient baggage
but my hands are cracked and swollen
from the weight.

Silly women
are always working so hard
at lessening themselves.
Silly men
are always working so hard
at owning them.

But I was not unlocked.
My name was never ‘Home’.

Michelle K., He Named Me ‘Home’.
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I crave your legs intertwined with mine, I crave nothing but you, in the most simplest of ways.


© T H E M E