ShopDreamUp AI ArtDreamUp
Deviation Actions
Daily Deviation
Daily Deviation
November 30, 2008
stop ruining autumn. by *estallidos is an exciting prose poem with some beautiful lines.
Featured by lovetodeviate
Suggested by popsicle-culture
Literature Text
listen:
fall makes me think of leaving and of apple cider, though i never liked apple cider.
but i liked the idea of it.
listen:
two years ago i met a boy as fragile as dead leaves who called me his little spring girl. (i'd always liked autumn the best.) he kissed the two soft dimples on the small of my back and told me helikedme helovedme hewantedme.
and oh, by the way, "everything good must come to an end."
listen:
on our one year anniversary we picked out two pumpkins and i drew elephants on them for us to carve. he cut his out so aggressively that it lost its shape.
lopped off tusks and broken trunks became just a large, jagged hole.
he put a lit candle inside, and we watched it flicker, illuminating the raw edges.
"what is it supposed to be?" i asked him, taking his hand.
"my heart," he said definitively.
like an afterthought.
after that i was too afraid to carve my pumpkin at all.
listen:
the leaves changed, or maybe he changed, or maybe i was brave enough to carve that fucking elephant on a faded pumpkin, weeks too late for halloween. (i screwed it up anyway, the elephant had three legs.)
maybe if he hadn't loved apple cider so much, if he had let the piercing in his lip close up, or if he hadn't cracked between my fingers like dead leaves, he would still be holding my hand.
but somehow i don't think so.
his hands are now too busy holding cigarettes. holding court orders. letting go.
listen:
he left a gallon of apple cider in my fridge. maybe it is still there.
listen:
i kept my ruined pumpkin beneath my desk for a week and propped my feet up on it, but i could never bear to put a lit candle inside.
there was just something entirely too hopeful about watching broken things glow.
fall makes me think of leaving and of apple cider, though i never liked apple cider.
but i liked the idea of it.
listen:
two years ago i met a boy as fragile as dead leaves who called me his little spring girl. (i'd always liked autumn the best.) he kissed the two soft dimples on the small of my back and told me helikedme helovedme hewantedme.
and oh, by the way, "everything good must come to an end."
listen:
on our one year anniversary we picked out two pumpkins and i drew elephants on them for us to carve. he cut his out so aggressively that it lost its shape.
lopped off tusks and broken trunks became just a large, jagged hole.
he put a lit candle inside, and we watched it flicker, illuminating the raw edges.
"what is it supposed to be?" i asked him, taking his hand.
"my heart," he said definitively.
like an afterthought.
after that i was too afraid to carve my pumpkin at all.
listen:
the leaves changed, or maybe he changed, or maybe i was brave enough to carve that fucking elephant on a faded pumpkin, weeks too late for halloween. (i screwed it up anyway, the elephant had three legs.)
maybe if he hadn't loved apple cider so much, if he had let the piercing in his lip close up, or if he hadn't cracked between my fingers like dead leaves, he would still be holding my hand.
but somehow i don't think so.
his hands are now too busy holding cigarettes. holding court orders. letting go.
listen:
he left a gallon of apple cider in my fridge. maybe it is still there.
listen:
i kept my ruined pumpkin beneath my desk for a week and propped my feet up on it, but i could never bear to put a lit candle inside.
there was just something entirely too hopeful about watching broken things glow.
Literature
You've been on my mind...
Quite frankly, you're heavy. Get off.
Literature
In Three Acts
man
cliff
sea
cliff
man
sea
cliff
sea
man
Literature
The Thing About Cliches
I.
If this were a cliché,
A poem, or both
It would be about sparkling midnight skies and heartbeats and flowers and sex.
There would be oceanic eyes and rain that tastes like tears. Well throw in anxiety-riddled murmurs and metaphorical bullets and allusions to sharp objects for pity.
This is not a cliché anymore.
So instead I wrote about the flavor of emerald and the fragrance of April hope. I painted pictures of a perfect pencil, poised over a blank page.
II.
If this were a romance,
A message in a bottle, or both
It would still be cliché, to capture electric fingers and longings locked away with skeleton keys
Suggested Collections
Featured in Groups
más se perdió en cuba.
my book is out!
-buy a personalized paperback here: ididntmeanitbutisortofdid.blog…
-see a preview and buy a normal paperback or ebook here: www.fastpencil.com/publication…
my book is out!
-buy a personalized paperback here: ididntmeanitbutisortofdid.blog…
-see a preview and buy a normal paperback or ebook here: www.fastpencil.com/publication…
Comments475
Join the community to add your comment. Already a deviant? Log In
i liked it