AsterGirl

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some things do not last. by AsterGirl, literature

some things do not last.

AsterGirl

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bittersweet. by AsterGirl, literature

In One Motion by AsterGirl, literature

Literature

In One Motion

The sun does not rise the same everywhere. The sun I once knew rose slowly, letting the light dance on my skin, the morning soak into my bones. Here, the sun runs quick into the sky, and we are forced to run with it. The night never seems long. My younger sister is the only one allowed to sleep throughout the day. Slung across my mother’s back, she curls her head into her arms, thumb tucked between her lips. We arrive at another bridge. This one less crowded than the one before. We gather loud at the crossing point, hands waving. Papers and words are passed, and we are let through the gate. The same kind of people meet us on the other side— a woman with a table of like-new clothes, a man with his stand of quick fried foods, an old woman with prayer beads around her arms and neck. A woman like before is here as well. She seats me in a white plastic chair, pulling her tool from her back pocket. The scissors are grey, faded, and slightly rusted. She asks my mother how much hair she

, by AsterGirl, literature

Literature

,

glass is a liquid & maybe that's why i keep falling facefirst into storefronts, apologizing for the mess i've made, mopping up "buy one get one free"s maybe that's why shards are cool to the touch; and touching doesn't always hurt maybe that's why the stained windows inside churches glisten spirits & god & all that is holy s h i m m e r i n g maybe that's why my heart doesn't shatter only drowns me

, by AsterGirl, literature

... by AsterGirl, literature

i should be studying. by AsterGirl, literature

Literature

i should be studying.

and i don't know if its the coffee or the silence or the fact that it's twelve am and i'm a thousand miles away from the the first mountain i ever hiked but i can't help feeling sorry for things i didn't do like that time i wanted to draw a dragon on the corner of my paper but only ever wrote my name or the time i should've tried to speak up or the time i didn't take my sweater or the time i didn't eat that slice of cake or the time i should have said i love you ((because, fuck ,i love you i love you i love you i love you)) but now the dragons i draw

hansel never called. by AsterGirl, literature

the caps come off on their own. by AsterGirl, literature

the empty. by AsterGirl, literature

Literature

the empty.

there is something enchanting about empty buildings it's like a separate dimension ((a secret)) i am a deep sea diver at the bottom of the ocean in a place of quiet and wonder s u s p e n d e d like a bird about to take flight but footsteps echo bricks into glass houses and suddenly the magic is gone i am once again a girl in a world too big for me to understand

the barren. by AsterGirl, literature

Literature

the barren.

It’s an old house. Clapboard. White. Or at least, it once was. Neglect and time have reduced the paint to an odd grey, chipped and scraped away like something unwanted. The roof shingles are equally as faded. The windows are closed, covered from the inside by beige curtains like eyes shut in a deep sleep. An old, brick chimney peeks out from the top of the house. No smoke. An equally red door stands shut at the mouth of it. No bell. A porch juts out awkward but new. A limb reattached to the wrong body. There is a wooden rocking chair on the porch. It’s different from the rest. Pristine. Untouched. Beckoning. She used to have a

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repeat by gliitchlord, literature

Literature

repeat

i. crease it, my worry and keep it unblemished. one sentence or another may demolish. penance and patience are dawnlit, quiet, awkward. tend it, softly as sunrise's kiss. color me quick, before data streams switch and monotony pivots our hips. astronomy quits begging wrists to discern it, here at the entrance of astonishing bliss and atonement we're seated. once, defeated seemed feasible, queasy and caustic now keep to themselves. sweetness in storied wonder, we keep. ii. some evenings i retrieve the worry, unfold it and weep.

Math and Poetry by MariaTala, literature

Literature

Math and Poetry

She used to tell me of math and poetry by the length of her arm and rhythm of her heart condensing verse and fraction with form following the function of communist theories and greek philosophies. she beat out aesthetics with a perfect symmetry. because no one understands the relationship between seafoam and shoreline the way she does [swimming in saltwater sorrows] reimagining time in an hourglass, she shot up infinities with a glance and left me moondrunk in the night. she emits sparks throughout my system breaking and entering-- my kingdom under siege. her name was an amalgam of numbers 1.61803399 . . . . and I lov

i think by chromeantennae, literature

Literature

i think

porcelain collapse, my hair is dripping down my shoulders. tile collapse, my hair is dripping on the carpet. carpet collapse, my hair is dripping on my shoulders. i think my shoulders are dripping. i think my back is too. i think i'm water/ wasting away. i think my mom is calling my name. i think my dad is covering me up. i think i'm naked under here. i think this is a dream. i think this is a dream. i think i'm going to wake up now. i think i'm gonna die.

i'm sorry for only writing sad things, by 1nkl1ng, literature

Literature

i'm sorry for only writing sad things,

but saturday night i wanted to offend god into listening to just one line- needed to drag someone into hearing the roar between my ears with me. i'd like to write something you can put music to- lyrical and pretty. funny. maybe irreverent. but today what is most real to me is not laughter. it is feeling short of breath. empty of poetic language. unfunny. too long for a limerick. unsuited to sonnets. musical only in the slamming of my heart. an erratic beat at best. endings. comparing crises of the mind to someone throwing up in the bathroom after too much beer pong and hard rock- both are shameful to repeat in therapy and i feel like i c

stars are pearls beneath the waves by Khaimin, literature

Literature

stars are pearls beneath the waves

it's been raining as though the sky dreams of opening up and pouring raindrops down like blistered stars upon my head - the moon turns behind clouds wrought like iron, and i can't see it through the veil the sea brewed from the breaches of the world. dark thunderclouds race like tortoises across the plane of unbroken gray. engines made of live wires spark brightly, neverending, causing booming backfires as they reach long fingers towards the horizon - the sky twists with fitful dreams, dehydrated and wandering, lost, within an expanse of forgotten time - the sea breaches shorelines made of clay and rushes mountains, granite tips dis

cobweb. by comatose-comet, literature

Literature

cobweb.

i. i am writing myself into rooms, four walls, four loves, four atria pulsing in my chest. i am writing myself into other people’s arms as if it makes a damn difference, i don’t know when my own hands stopped being enough. ii. i am a girl made of oceans, i am a girl made of glass, i am a body made of wax with a tongue of fire. i have watched saturn drop through its ring, plummeting into glacial seas and frost-bitten remnants of constellations, i have seen silence take shape and sit heavy on my chest like a mourner splayed on an empty coffin. iii. i have written my obituary in a moment spent diving into concrete tee

to the woman who drowned herself in the bathtub. by littleblueraccoon, literature

Literature

to the woman who drowned herself in the bathtub.

i. to the woman who drowned herself in the bathtub: in the magazine I own that published your story, they blurred out the crime scene photographs, erasing your face and the full curves of your breasts. some part of me wonders if you would have wanted this, or if you would have liked for the public to see you in your final moments, half-soaked in grey-looking water, your hair in strings, glued to the porcelain, eyes closed and mouth gaping, no breath stirring, no bubbles rising. ii. sometimes when I look into the depths of my bathroom sink, I hear your voice (or what I imagine it to be-- after all, we never met). you sit on the edge

moondance. by comatose-comet, literature

Literature

moondance.

he had a mouth that tasted of kisses, spoke words sweet like secrets, had promises shaped like hands and hands shaped like promises, he had a way with remembering people’s whole names, great with birthdays, he could name every capital city in europe if you asked him to. he was a man too tall to be a be a boy, a boy too wonderful to be a man, he could play the bass guitar and would serenade seagulls, old ladies, he was charming in his placidity. he was a moth- bitten tapestry of something beautiful, he was a crocus blooming on a devil’s grave, he was the moment the rain stopped when you realised you had no umbrella, he was the mi