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Literature Text
The girl is a god with wolves in her chest
While she catches boys in her hair like birds.
Her flesh speaks the lore of a martyr in disguise
But she is no stone-skinned warrior.
She is water born and earth made
Like the pale peaks of waves
whose tongues lap at the fire.
She reaches towards the sky
Hoping to warm her hands
All she finds is her own breath carved into air.
The girl is not a god, she is a hero
With birds nesting in her chest
While wolves braid her hair.
While she catches boys in her hair like birds.
Her flesh speaks the lore of a martyr in disguise
But she is no stone-skinned warrior.
She is water born and earth made
Like the pale peaks of waves
whose tongues lap at the fire.
She reaches towards the sky
Hoping to warm her hands
All she finds is her own breath carved into air.
The girl is not a god, she is a hero
With birds nesting in her chest
While wolves braid her hair.
Literature
For she is the girl with the wildflower heart beat
Capsizing oceans breaking over her red queen smile
Know the answers to where secret gardens grow
Behind flaming thorns and rusting knights
Lie dormant stars waiting to split open and spew over her ribs
In order to make constellations out of her lion breaths
Palms scratching the skies to find the sun
Behind the fluorescent sounds of steel birds and empty raindrops
She colors in her retinas to rid the world of shades of grey
She blooms like wildflowers aching for scorched storms
She is summer veins and dandelion heartstrings
Whispering stories to the wolves at her door
Because fairy tales are just myths and there’s rarely a happy endin
Literature
we are not a fairytale
we are not a fairytale.
I am not the strong lead with a heart of fire,
bones of steel, and eyes of vapid curiosity;
motivation seeping through
my every last intended action because
I was written this way
(the heroine falls only to rise again:
proverbial phoenix, burning out
because it is the cycle of my
life) and you, you are not
the beautiful travesty, perfectly composed
to strike me where I’m weak and
[almost]human, delicately woven
like the tapestry of my dismantling—
a subtle irony where somewhere, a writer
chuckles softly, understanding
we are blinder than church mice, born
in a makeshift world of darkness where
I&rsquo
Literature
I loved a girl.
i loved a girl.
i loved a girl with a love
for cummings & sandburg
& sexton.
i loved an unflinching
poet of a girl.
& with no better diction:
they called the shaking fists
at her sides, her silent act
of pacifism, cowardice.
i’m the coward;
she bled for the both of us.
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Beautiful Laura 
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