Prose
Why is The Trail Here?
Why is the trail here? Nature enthusiasts: Because it winds around picturesque valleys, ambles through a valley following the river to the sparkling sea, whispers its way through an old growth forest carefully preserved, and tiptoes through a swamp still very much alive with ancient crocodiles.
By Meredith Harmon8 months ago in Poets
I understand.
You think I don't understand you but I do Or maybe I don't , but this is what I know: I know what it's like to be alone , to lose yourself, have nothing left in you to give. You want to love but you gave all of it away, people took it away from you. Perhaps you gave the last bit of you to another, and they ran away with it. Your love was so strong they couldn't help but take it with them.
By CotardDelusionz8 months ago in Poets
My Storm Maiden
Lightning flashed as the hailstones smashed and torrents splashed against the rattling windows and doors. Startled, I screamed, dropping my favorite crystal teacup, shards of clear Czech crystal skittering across the barren wood floor of white pine, well-worn. As I kneeled to retrieve the pieces of wet glass, the storm raged on, and the window above me lit with a double flash. Suddenly, I saw her, the Maiden of Storms; I knew my love had finally returned.
By K.B. Silver 8 months ago in Poets
6:50pm
So if you can’t do what you love, you survive. You pierce your ears above the bathroom sink and try to look anywhere but at the blood. Your daughter starts teething and you rip the earrings out again. They were a gift from your father but you always hated them. It serves you right, too. Doing what you love is without raise, without pull, so you take the plug from the drain and watch. You find yourself in cages made of gold that’s worth more than the girl in your house. She’s foreign like the walls and the rules you wrote on the mirror. You can’t believe you wrote those— you don’t believe any of it. You write a file of the things that break her teeth and export it into the trash. It’ll stay there forever and you’ll find it when you’re a decade older, but you still won’t find the humor in it. None of it makes any sense because living and surviving are synonyms and they’re not the same at all.
By Olivia Dodge8 months ago in Poets
Pride Under Pressure—A Love That Refuses to Vanish. AI-Generated.
There is a weight to being seen. A sharp, unrelenting pressure that presses against the ribs, constricts the breath, and warns—too much visibility will cost you. It is the unspoken lesson of survival, passed down through glances, through silences, through doors that close quietly when you walk into a room. Be careful. Be small. Be quiet.
By taylor lindani8 months ago in Poets
