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nicolemonique

Published: Aug 29, 2014

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Literature Text

Really, you're nothing but
a poorly constructed
sentence that I can't
quite say.

More by nicolemonique

Literature

jalapeno

i will never plant another jalapeno pepper for a man i love. i don’t know if there’s magic to it, or just bad luck but as soon as roots curl into fertile soil, fingers start to uncurl from my hair like one space can only spare so much heat-- and peppers will grow when people won’t and how can i feel lonely when i know that? it’s just the nature of things. I want to rip that plant out of the ground because i feel like it’s laughing at me, but one of us deserves to blossom. i’m so mad at it for being here still, when he’s not. but shouldn’t i be grateful? thank you for staying, even though I

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she has a heart of gold and she, a heart of lead and she, a heart of uranium. and they go walking sometimes, the three of them. gold is confident in her worth, untarnishable bought and sold and bought and sold the virgin whore and lead behind, heart heavy in her chest guilt from bullets and pride from pipes and anxiety from irreparable brain damage and somewhere off to the side treads uranium, tumors growing, white skin glowing, thin frame for a dense core.

Literature

If

We can draw lines and give them names like elements as they are discovered Or etch into our skins this soloecal desire until it is impossible to tell where words stop and life begins. I would Find a common rhythm that includes you in my arms, my hands and lungs and thoughts tracing the outline of you entangled with me colliding like two lost particles locked in a shared gravity drifting through the vacuum of space. I could. Exhale, and remember sentence structure.

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ALL FICTION poetry, stories

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Broken

Internal desperation of pain and loss unable to break the emotional and physical impotence to overcome the mental barriers needed to cleanse and heal cry HELP and I will come be silent and bleed away the pain until it returns rampant again and again its bitter conclusion short and satisfying but eternal and broken

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Hangnail

Hangnail, hangnail, Thorn in my hand, What glory shall ye yield? Thorns in the side gain biblical verses, Or are necessary evils of roses beloved. Sand grains in oyster shells become pearls, Rough turned into diamond, Bane into beauty. But what of you, oh blessing of stepmothers? Some fairy tale of plaguing those toiling stepdaughters, Insult to injury? Or perhaps some lore bespeaking the mothers-die of the lace of queens, Or the fathers-die of black widows… But in the end, it shall matter not. For to me, ye shall yield nothing But voicelessness in the jaws of clippers.

Literature

eighteen.

. i. nyctophilia; i'm in love with the night. lips red from kissing the sun goodbye, hands powder-white from holding the moon, eyes drowsy grey because i've been up all night counting how many stars remind me of you. ( 94, 95 because one wears your face, polaris. ) and i fall asleep with a threadbare blanket that twinkles, and i wake with stardust in the hollows of my eyelids and i twinkle- i gleam, and i shine, and i twinkle like the galaxies are accepting new-born beauties. ii. i was born a starchild; indigo in the eye, indigo in the lips, indigo in the heart. i had sunlight hair, and hot-headedness, and a brain of endless summer brea

Poetry

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A Robot Love Poem

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Literature

stormchaser

dear sarah, yesterday I tried to swallow the sun. it burned me up on the inside until even my skin was hot to the touch, and I thought of you. I hope you have found better ways than me to feel lighter. heaven knows there are days where I still trade my feet for concrete blocks and try to sprint to the finish line, but at least I have stopped straying towards the riverbanks. at least I get out of bed. most days, that’s enough. but if you tell me that most days life still feels like a choice you’re making every minute, I will tell you that I understand. I have spent years trying to outrun my sadness, sipping sunlight until my vision blurs and looking up only to realize I’ve been going in circles and calling it progress. every escape I ever made is a town I can never go back to and I’m not better for it. I carry so many graveyards around inside of me, and I’ve lost count of how many bridges I’ve burned because I confused loving with leaving. take my sadness away, I don’t

Literature

girls on a roof.

aphrodite passes the blunt to persephone, says you have to tell me how you did that, how you seduced hades and they sit there on the roof, the stars twinkling. persephone looks youthful in a way that’s untouched, as if she’s somehow eternally seventeen or made of sunshine. i didn’t have to do much, she says. and aphrodite who’s spent years reading gossip mags & articles about “ true love ” thinks about how she saw hades take off his leather jacket & wrap it around persephone’s shoulders, easy as breathing. kissed the side of her head. gave

poem stories

Literature

Blood Brothers

Brookie always holds my hand when we cross the street. She's never given a reason for it, she just does it. It's become this unspoken rule with us that whenever we cross the street together, she slips her hand in mine and I lace my fingers through hers and we walk hand-in-hand until we reach the other side and she drops her hand and we both wipe our palms on our jeans. Brookie's a little scared of crossing the street. Her poppa died in a car crash when we were six. He was a pedestrian. She's never gotten over it. Brookie is my best friend going on sixteen years now, which is pretty impressive considering we're both sixteen. We don't h

Literature

Liar

~ "You're lying, Mommy" the girl with pixie hair mumbled as she skirted near the woman's side. "I never lie," Her mother responded as her hands ghosted across her son's hair. "That's a lie everyone lies, the teacher told me so, she says I lie the best, too. " Her eyes glistened with malicious splendor as she said the words being the best liar was a brilliant thing to be, simply perfect. "I never lie," Her mother simply repeated bending over to gather ingredients into the grocery cart. The girl grumbled, "Nu-uh, you're just bad at it." ~ "Tell me another Mommy!!" he screec

Literature

Does that make me Different?

I wear make up. Does that make me fake? I cry. Does that make me emo? I have male friends. Does that make me slutty? I smile a lot. Does that make me weird? I laugh loud. Does that make me preppy? I have anxiety. Does that make me a freak? I have Bipolar Disorder. Does that make me abnormal? I respect people. I change for me, and only me. I have a past, but I know I have a future. Does that make me different? Maybe. But at least it makes me Me.

A quick thought I didn't want to lose. Maybe this will turn into a series? Who's to say! But that's why it's numbered, just in case.

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