the worst of it

 

you watched me

on the big screen

shattering like a

tea pot and screaming

the worst of it

into a void that’s been

empty for years

 

you kept my

hands warm

through the worst of it

you let me see

all the shapes

in the clouds

and still kissed me after

 

and when I am

a woman again

you lay hands on

my hips like

a beautiful heirloom

every flaw is

some wonderful memory

 

my heart continually breaks

at every god

damn

familiar seam

and you are waiting

every single time

you are waiting for me

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one street over

Originally posted on TIPSY LIT:

mother is smoking cigarettes

on her front stoop throne

summer has turned the

cracked concrete into a stove top

where I pan fry my childhood

 

my friends and I are

wreaking havoc

down on the pavement

kicking soda can soccer balls

in the thick of the city

 

every day is a

tired version of itself

where I am hopscotching

through depressing pools of

yellow streetlight

 

mother is calling me now

her voice is hula dancing

between crumbling buildings

before it fades for good

one street over

 

I am picking a knee scab

on the curb of the last sidewalk

where I’m allowed to roam

and counting the Mississippi’s

like thunder and lightning between her calls

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girl

 

girl headed

down south

to forget

girl headed down south

with a crushed pack

of cigarettes

and a warm bottle

of water from her

mother’s kitchen tap

 

girl used to

catch fireflies

with those hands

girl used to quiet

laughter with those hands

now they’re

soft as the

floorboards

in her uncle’s bedroom

 

girl thumbs it

halfway to

nowhere

shoulder to

shoulder

with somebody

in the hot

cab of a pickup

truck

 

girl lets

her eyes close

for a moment

for an hour

girl is still while his

hand swears in

on her thigh

she pays him

in her sleep

 

girl is smoking

her last cigarette

on a park bench

girl is waving goodbye

to him

her uncle’s bedroom floor

the last drop from

mother’s kitchen tap

the stale life on her tongue

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“You should date a girl who reads” by Rosemarie Urquico

Originally posted on Words for the Year:

You should date a girl who reads.

“Date a girl who reads. Date a girl who spends her money on books instead of clothes, who has problems with closet space because she has too many books. Date a girl who has a list of books she wants to read, who has had a library card since she was twelve.

Find a girl who reads. You’ll know that she does because she will always have an unread book in her bag. She’s the one lovingly looking over the shelves in the bookstore, the one who quietly cries out when she has found the book she wants. You see that weird chick sniffing the pages of an old book in a secondhand book shop? That’s the reader. They can never resist smelling the pages, especially when they are yellow and worn.

She’s the girl reading while waiting in that coffee shop down…

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over coffee

Nicole Marie:

Join me over at Tipsy Lit for some Saturday afternoon poetry!

Originally posted on TIPSY LIT:

it is often routine

over coffee of course

to dream up

all the ordinary ways

I’ll leave

this life

 

some are so

damn connected

but I can’t stand to

waste time

stamping my skin with

smoke-screen memories

 

we all know where we’re headed

 

I took down all the

photos of the dead

yesterday

left the dust squares

on the wall

 

I am just

imagining

what was once there:

sweaters, arms linked

in arms

 

the fear

 

but I’m not worried

about that inevitability

of silence

only the thought

of my coffee

growing cold

 

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seasons

ultrasound1

I woke this morning

to the most

beautiful

vision of you

in one single

solid whoosh

of a heart

beat

 

who said we could grow gardens inside of us?

 

I am touching

your face

now

and

I catalogued all your

pieces long ago

but there is a

curve

at your mouth

that is new as

every season

when you held me

like water

 

it is the quiet,

lovely sound

of our future

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remedies

Originally posted on TIPSY LIT:

there is literature

in my paper lungs

only the kind that keeps you up at night

it is sitting beside you over morning tea

 

I am covered in tiny crimson notches

that tally all my cautious edges

I count them like stones

they are keeping me from taking flight

 

and when the lights go out

I set fire to my knees and elbows

a phoenix in bed slippers

is just so unsuspecting

 

I breathe in so hard

I swallow the moon just to put me out again

there are golden remedies

growing in the darkest corners of us

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Why You Should Consider Serializing Your Novel on Wattpad

Nicole Marie:

Wondering if publishing via Wattpad is right for you? Check out this great (and informative) post over at Tipsy Lit by guest blogger – and Wattpad superstar – Rowena Wiseman!

Originally posted on TIPSY LIT:

I love me a good guest post, especially when it’s written by a Wattpad superstar!  Please welcome Rowena Wiseman to Tipsy Lit!  Rowena is YA author who has found major success on the platform and encourages writers to check out how Wattpad can instantly increase an author’s exposure.

silver by rowena wisemanWattpad is the world’s playground where writers and readers meet. It’s social, supportive and interactive. There are over 30 million people on Wattpad from all over the globe and they all share the love of a good story.

I’m constantly surprised by the results my YA novel Silver is getting on Wattpad. In nine months, my story about teenagers in the West being forced into arranged marriages has had over 250,000 chapter reads, almost 5000 votes, it’s been in the top 20 general fiction rankings a number of times and recently I had an offer by a loyal reader to translate it…

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Seven

 

I am still in our bed

I am still counting

your footsteps that faded hours ago

and where you placed

your fingers on me

is still burning like it’s

known death too soon.

 

Ages ago we were

somewhere in moonlight

decoding one another

and your spine was the most beautiful braille

so I’d close my eyes

inhale your literature

and sing out all your best stories.

 

I was never aware

that I was becoming illiterate

instead I woke

to the same old sunlight

and suddenly the tides of your breath

were leaving me

empty as the words that had stopped forming.

 

There is no you

on my lips anymore

just some old story

that has hardened on my tongue

and I am desperate to forget

it was seven

 

seven footsteps that carried you away from me.

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the king of Mayfair

Originally posted on TIPSY LIT:

Dad & Grandpop - 6X8

my grandfather sits on his front stoop
smoking cigars in a flannel,
he is the king of Mayfair

it’s Philadelphia hot
and the window units are all humming
that same monotonous tune in the lazy sunlight
while the same dozen cars
loop the neighborhood,
pharmacy, market, home again,
hauling packages up crooked stairways

he stubs out a smoke
in an old cracked planter
and hacks out all the bad

it takes ages to lift himself
up and back inside
he is balancing on three things:
one old foot, another,
the third thing is
stubbornness thick as concrete

he clicks on the television
and pours a glass of wine,
drinks his daily pills
and twirls his cane
like a nightstick

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