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See, that’s what the app is perfect for.

Sounds perfect Wahhhh, I don’t wanna
gracebriarwoodwrites
gracebriarwoodwrites

I yearn to leave this fight behind,
but every night,
I wrestle my shadow.
I try to elevate the conflict
with acrobatic moves,
but she her holds are savage
and soon I respond in kind.
Neither of us wins–
we collapse from exhaustion
in the middle of the fight.
When I wake to meet the day,
she shambles behind me
until the light leaves
and the fight begins again.

this was from an old five word prompt and I love how it turned out
gracebriarwoodwrites
gracebriarwoodwrites

I wait at the counter
of the celestial cafe.
The barista looks a little tired,
but she glows.
Everyone glows here.

                                     What do you need? 

Nothing too complicated. 
Just glass full of light.

                                     Can humans drink light?

I need to cancel out
the shadows in my chest. 

                                      Here, then. Good luck. 

gracebriarwoodwrites
gracebriarwoodwrites

If someone touches the back of my arm,
I'm scared it will give way like a soft orange peel
gone green with rot. We love a fresh orange,

easily shed of its armor, easily shared,
but nothing rotted is loved.
We love the mushroom and ignore the log,
and I'm not so charming anymore,
so I must be the log--

the rotted and not rot's results.
Well, I've always loved the logs on my long walks,
not just the mushroom and the moss

and what crawls beneath, the log too,
but I struggle to take my walks
and it's rare that I get to look. Does anyone
look at me and see me?
Or do they only see what I make?

If someone touches me on the back of the arm,
maybe they'll find penicillin and be cured by my rot.
So what if that means I give way?

fluoresensitive
kiki0008

image

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gracebriarwoodwrites
gracebriarwoodwrites

In my childhood dreams, the fairies 
stole me away from my own death,
time and time again.
Their forest became a haven 
from the flames the mob 
created for me, the traditional
penalty for magic.

I can’t remember when I started
to shy away from fairy rings, 
when I started to adorn myself
in iron and play with matches,
when I embraced the crowd 
with open arms. 

The forest was made by
more ancient hands than theirs,
kinder hands, and
I have no magic,
only broken words 
that take to the air.