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queer girl coming of age in northern California. by callistory, literature
Literature
queer girl coming of age in northern California.
queer girl coming of age in northern California feels
like heaven, like reckless 21, like speeding down the
San Mateo-Hayward bridge going straight as an arrow
on the glassy ocean water for miles and miles, like a
reggaeton heartbeat on the radio as the sunset puts
everything in soft filter and the hills go all soft and blue
to the horizon and i glimpse myself in the rearview and
goddamnit i'm stunning! i'm stunning! i'm glorious
even with my eyeliner crooked and my choppy hair
coming undone but that doesn't matter at all because
i'm finally happy, so fucking happy that it feels like my
soul is breaking open and spilling all the pi
She has red hair
when I think of her
or at least I saw red
as she ran from me
like wine wasted
down the sink.
So these days I keep
an empty kitchen.
In the absence of drink
I eat no bread
and need no knife
to cut it,
and after losing her
I’d half a mind
to send my body to the state -
and being the last sharp thing I had,
I surrendered her
like a paperclip unbent
thinking she and my shoelaces
should be small enough
to give.
i.
lovely, isn't it?
i sing you a lullaby, and you—
you fall asleep.
darkness says: it might forget me. darkness says it might forget me.
i was told that to good girls come no grief.
ii.
& here i am,
here we are.
no more skeletons in my closet—
i lie with them at night
i party with the ghosts of my past
i do the dance with my sins of late, swinging the swing till midnight:
i wait for sadness to come back i push happiness away i wait for sadness to come back i push happiness away i wait for sadness to come back i push happiness away i wait for sadness to come back i push happiness away i wait for sadness to come back i push h
A translation of the Old English poem 'Wulf and Eadwacer'
Like ointment to a wound, what salvation would it be
To sink their teeth into his flesh to satisfy their greed.
Such is my kin’s desire, if he invades their company.
We are not the same.
My Wulf dwells on an island shut, another prisons me.
A stronghold forged by natures craft, bound by the marshes’ sea,
ruled by men of cruel mien, with heinous fantasies,
for they wish to stain their blades to satisfy their greed.
We are different.
My thoughts stray after Wulfe’s trail,
When wind and water hide my wail,
When taken by the warrior’s arms,
My body’s b
please move slowly,
she’s still wounded.
we’ve all been here before,
guarding against ghosts at the door
while the demons, they rail inside you
making you fear what’s before-
and it got the best of us, winter did.
all cold claws and biting wind
full of desolation and emptiness {& death}
the plants will revive come spring,
stretch themselves up towards the sky-
but will you?
that we might grow far past our birth by alapip, literature
Literature
that we might grow far past our birth
"patience grasshopper"
better yet, "tadpole":
- [just not too much] -
["patience"]
if one ceases to evolve
or worse has never begun
can one in truth be said
to live among the living?
~ ~ ~
I have no mirror to see for myself
has my tail disappeared as yet?
llp - dA - mar2020
once a boy we all claimed to know parked his car at the library and walked clean off the interstate overpass and into rush hour traffic. when the paramedics arrived all that was left was salt. or so the poets told us. the idea of a stopped i95 is not at all unusual but some kind of miracle nonetheless. the fact is that a boy fell from a high place like a cloud or prayer and ended up another wet thing on the steaming concrete. groundwater. griefpuddle. stained glass. i mean to say something of refraction. drainage. how we all leave and are still left behind.