lethologic-luna

     As students, the things we carry are largely determined by our identities. True, we all carry the same learning utensils: pens, pencils, paper - but those items constitute only a small fraction of what we carry. No, we carry everything from the profoundest of dreams to the most superficial of possessions. We are what we carry - we carry what we are.     We carry tupperwares of baked goods to share with our friends. We carry posters, books, phones, tech projects, art projects, portfolios, briefcases, instruments, headphones, speakers, cosmetic appliances, athletic equipment, our change of clothes for sports practice, our change of cloth

because bathrooms have the best acoustics.

how he would love to be the coffee to her mornings, to rouse her gingerly with the smell of his warmth and vitality, and be that which she depends on to persevere through these dry, lethargic, lip-chapping mornings. how he would love for her to be the tea to his nighttime, to lull and   swoon and pacify his babyish ways - to tame his fervent embers with a cool, sweet breath down his neck, freezing the hot tea-tears there that dared to trespass her territory. and so, she would be that which he depends on to get him through these bitter, sleepless, teeth-chattering nights. he reached for her-- knocked over his mug, spilled hi

  “Mama,” her little voice is passionately curious, firm and without shame. “Where do babies come from?” I realize she will accept, “mommy’s tummy” or “a delivery stork.” My daughter has seen less but she knows more. She is not naïve. I answer her, “Better to ask, where do tears come from?” “Why, from the eyes, Momma. What else could eyes be for?” I respond to her rhetorical question with a wounded silence at first. Then I say, “Are you sure?” At this indication, the sun peeks out at our conversation. And in contempt he glares at my daughter

I wanted someone to call me at midnight, out of breath (out of luck). Telling me they need to talk. But not you. "This probably comes three hours too late but please, listen anyways." You placed your tongue on my throbbing heart, eager to nurse off the life of another. You said: "Shred skin to find the bone", I had shed my skin, lulled my bones into a weeping silence and I still tasted disappointment in your kiss. I've heard your eyelids creak when you open and shut them. I know what hides behind the glass and I do not plan on coming back.

also known as a poem where i'll name-drop every poet i've ever fallen for and then make clever references and play with usernames and ultimately end on some sort of joke because that's all my poetry is, wordplay wrapped in sarcasm. and obtuse obscure scientific language until my shit is shipwrecked and i'll need a captain to get me back on track, so i'll choose ian and say AyeAye12 (https://www.deviantart.com/ayeaye12). or aye aye captain and ay ay, let's see if i can do this in alphabetical order and i'm starting off well 'cause i would've started AlphaManifest (https://www.deviantart.com/alphamanifest) had she not have deactivated her account. and that's why i don't believe in forever 'cause as soon as you fall in

we             kill the          angels and     then    ask why    the    world is full of monsters

My Pillow Can't Hug Me It's been...6 months. Since I've been enveloped in any embrace. I kiss my mother every morning of every day on her right temple. It's a ritual I started at 13. That's 1,318 days, today. And starting then, a shift arose. I've never been overly affectionate, but as I get older, the more skin aches from no touch. Loneliness beating me down like the sun stifling withering petals, their descent nearly as gorgeous as when it flourished. Malnourished, I lie down on this bed, as the only thing being fed is the lead in my eyelids. Leading me to the only thing here that has consistently be there. And its slumber. But s

Quantic I don't cut my wrists, I ink 'em with fountain pens let the nibs nip at my bones clothed in skin and let the black water irrigate activity. The foundation of new life channels through on the parched surface. I'm like the reaping as the ink's inundation sow sew themselves on my casing like acrylic awnings rest atop iron. And my hide will no longer hide the onyx quandaries that riddle my mind, no longer necessary to try and quantify all of the things that repose inside. Calligraphy adorns my wrists as I symbolize beauty across my shell, so that I'll always walk around with this emblem, of past scars and shards. As if I tattooed

I named my first child after my favorite breakfast; Nichole, oatmeal sprinkled with cinnamon and cashew pieces. Sensible, but sweet, she wore turtlenecks and flats all throughout high school. My second, James, was like the lunch I had every other day in college – provolone and turkey on sourdough. Sturdy, hardy, jack of all trades. James could build a new clock just as easily as fixing the old one. People keep asking me to taste their names. Like names are ice cream cones, and I’m the only one that gets a lick. Strangers in the hallways know about the girl who eats names like potato chips and aren’t shy about asking how do