First Post! ~Lili

By -

Hi readers!

it's Lili (a co-author on this blog.) this is my first post. no one besides Katherine (the other amazing and brilliant and talented co-author on this blog) will probably read it, but whatever. below this stupid introduction is a poem titled: "Liquor". 



 The discovery of her liquid love
Knocked us out with the butt of her gun
Her entrance into this world
Brought a new age of roots and fire
The waters swallowed us up
We’re too mortal to remain while she walks among us

She kisses the dirt and from her lips
The roses shrivel to grey and slip
To my own mother’s chest
I cry when I see her in the window
With one look she stole my heart
I fall in love with her the moment the glass between us shatters

She is too full of aged bitterness to love me
She places her hand on my mother’s chest and squeezes the arteries
I cried when I saw her through the window
Because I knew that I would have no choice but to love her
Her scent is so sweet
I took one taste and it drowned my head with a salty sea

I hated it as she slid her tongue down my throat
But pulled her closer when she started to pull it out
I couldn’t get enough of her sickly aroma
Even as everyone around me fell to the ground
Those who had dared to touch
Now flush bare and bloody any time they dare look

They laid eyes on her sharp porcelain body
Nothing about her could possibly be holy
She is too true and hard for this world
She bashes her fists against the concrete
It cracks its way into our homes
It brings down our walls with a shuddering tremor
As our families fall through the gaping holes
We can only watch as she tears us apart

I let her hand slide down my thigh
Roots take place in my liver
Slowly it starts to poison me from inside out
Before I know it she’s popped my veins and
watches as my blood which is no longer red but green
Spills from my hands and my chest and my eyes
The last thing I see is her disgustingly beautiful face
It forces me to remember my mother
as I swallow the very last sip I will take, forever.

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

For Tomorrow, We Die

By -
Image
Let us eat, drink, and be merry, For tomorrow, we die. . . . An empty glass is raised in the air by a blistered hand, and a man stands up beside it. He smiles shakily, being the only one that hasn't gotten himself absolutely smashed. He used to drink, though, so much that he had gotten himself in trouble nearly every day of the week. I suppose today warrants just a bit of something different. He starts to talk, and all eyes shift to him. "I know-" His voice cracks, and he clears his throat. "I know that we're all-" He swallows. "-in a bit of a tough place right now. And, I know that, that this time, we're not getting out of here, that pride and spirit isn't gonna get us out of this one." The silent bar that reeked of expensive scotch and vodka looked downward, a gleam of acknowledgment in their eyes. One of these men looked at his brothers, who looked very much like they were biting back tears, and shouted from the...
Read more

Sunset

By -
Image
The first time I see the sky, It’s a warm blossom of colors. Orange, red, yellow, pink. Names that meant nothing before. The sun is dancing, Ever so slowly, Back to the dark place it despises. But it will always rise, And dance again. I recall this to a stranger. She murmurs condolences, And I don’t understand. “Were you really living?” She asks me, And I, confused, reply, “What’s living?” She wraps kind arms around me, Squeezing me tight. “I’m living,” She says. “And you’re living.” Living - warmth The next time I see the sky, I am lying on cold kitchen tiles. It swirls with inky blues and blacks, And I can feel it Drip, dripping on my skin. It’s cold, distantly cold, And I can’t help but feel That the cold tiles below me Hurt more than the burning pain on my weak body. “Pain is only proof that you’re alive.” The ink-spiller echoes in my head. My bloodstained cheeks, And the sky on my body Are proof that I am...
Read more

Teabags

By -
I lay on the couch of an apartment far too big for me, a cup of tea and a newspaper on top of the coffee table. My bleary eyes barely register the rolled up newspaper, before filling with tears. I turn to the other side, facing the couch, and squeeze my eyes shut. But it's too late. The mind is cruel that way, always drifting, always searching, for the one thing you don't want to think of, managing to pinpoint and photograph the one thing you don't want to see. In my case, it was the newspaper article; one in the very corner of the post, so small that it could barely be read beside the huge sports headline about an athlete breaking yet another world record. My mind asks me, over and over again. Is that it? Is that all he's worth? Is that all he left behind? And of course, the answer is no. Because he left me behind too. It was a badly written article, sentences choppy and short, as if the writer was barely managing to huff and puff the words out. ...
Read more