i. pink stains being wedged into blue palettes like flesh and bruise; 

ii. the ends of each bursting seam refusing to submit to the backward flow of this great lake

iii. breaths dripping with bloodied fight those thorns will never understand

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memorandum for later

last post as a fourteen year old — not going to be obtusely pretentious this time. here’s a picture of the skyline that traces the peripheries of my happiest memories. there is so much i have moulded in this past year and so much i want to demolish. clock’s ticking — thirty one minutes. i feel oddly insipid this time round — my heart has slowed down to the tempo of my grandmother’s strained footsteps; to the distracting soft grumbles my brother makes when he dies in a game. clock’s ticking — twenty seven minutes. my eyelids are fluttering, threatening to shut, to the rhythm of my grandfather’s hurried breath whenever i’m running late for school; to the hastened scratches of my baby brother’s pencil on his worksheets. clock’s ticking — twenty five minutes. i can feel the searing heat resonating under the railways of my skin — like my mother’s warm tears on my cheek when i tell her i’m not good enough; when my dad holds up one of my certificates and smiles a smile warmer than the coasts of a thousand tropical beaches. clock’s ticking — twenty three minutes. my heart starts to swell and soften. i think about you; not even the horizon between the grandest vistas and the azure heavens can contain how grateful i am for you. i’m fading into inevitable slumber now. tomorrow will be like any other. a genesis of a new day, a better epoch. ok bye.

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i’m sorry for my recent disappearance in terms of poetic entries. my voice and imagination had simmered away into the thousands of blank papers that i had been forced to review, complete, mark, revise, write, examine, analyze, take down, remember, cite, fill up; you name it. what a paradox it is — education and school gave me the gift of what it is to write, yet it is too what drowns it away. due to recent events i had been brought back to read a few of my past works that i had uploaded on this website, and i am nothing but bemused as to how much i had forgotten the joy of documenting my musings in the form of prose/poetry. how wonderful it is to have my own words remind me of the beauty of itself. i promise i will be back, and i promise to learn to let the sunrise bleed into not only my eyes, but my soul once more, and with that i will pick up a pen. 
– xoxo kelly

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