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Literature Text
Incidentally
My heart fluttered
(You were nowhere to be seen)
Incidentally
Nausea gripped me in the gut
(Worry has been stalking my thoughts lately)
Factually
I wasn’t hungry. Really,
I wasn’t.
Literally
I slept with a book
It stabbed me in the gut
While I was dreaming about the stars
Incidentally
My daydreams have been getting odd lately
(You haven’t been in them, I promise)
For instance:
I thought, maybe, I could leave
Just sink into the details
So you and everyone else will forget me
(You already have, I know)
I thought, perhaps, I could sing
Loud
Really, I did.
Incidentally
I forgot how to speak
(The people who were listening
Are getting very frustrated now)
My heart fluttered
(You were nowhere to be seen)
Incidentally
Nausea gripped me in the gut
(Worry has been stalking my thoughts lately)
Factually
I wasn’t hungry. Really,
I wasn’t.
Literally
I slept with a book
It stabbed me in the gut
While I was dreaming about the stars
Incidentally
My daydreams have been getting odd lately
(You haven’t been in them, I promise)
For instance:
I thought, maybe, I could leave
Just sink into the details
So you and everyone else will forget me
(You already have, I know)
I thought, perhaps, I could sing
Loud
Really, I did.
Incidentally
I forgot how to speak
(The people who were listening
Are getting very frustrated now)
Literature
Summer Love
When I was eight I hated summer
It was juice-box sticky
and every day I scraped myself
off my sheets
and poured my body into a glass.
At twenty-two,
I don't remember peeling my legs
off a wooden chair come June,
but how our hands were damp with nerves
when we held them,
how the AC on the bus was too much
so my scarf became your blanket and
we ate curry with my parents
before I fell asleep on your shoulder.
Or when you told me not to swim too far out
and the ocean was too cold,
how you got sunburned and I bit my tongue
so hard holding back
"I told you so"
that I swear I bled,
your eyes reflecting the fish at the aquarium,
how you teased
Literature
Disposophobia
Disposophobia
She had always kept everything. Ticket stubs, receipts, the torn-off edges of notebook paper. Any doodles or scribbled ideas, and any note afforded her by a friend were kept and saved. Not everything received the honor, but particular things from specific events did. She wanted to keep track of each and every thing she had ever done. She did so, on a corkboard encircling her room from floor to ceiling; each day had its spot, and one could trace her life along the wall with the zigzagging strings of yarn that connected each day.
She didn't often invite others into her room, for fear they might displace something, either by
Literature
In Which Middle School is Hell
I can still remember with perfect clarity the day in eighth grade when a boy walked up to me at my locker and said, “Hey cutie.” I was sweaty, having just come from gym class, and I was only at my locker to buy some time before I had to go to math class where the teacher hated me and the numbers didn’t make any sense. But there was a boy standing next to me and he called me cute and I had no idea what to say. As it turned out I didn’t have to say anything because the girl he was with just laughed, a cut off cackle into the oversized purse she was fishing through. I turned back to my locker, not saying a word because I
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