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Lighthouse

By : January 4, 2021 Comments Off
At that moment I was at peace in the center I was the eye of the storm  Intrigued by your beacon of light The voyage to the lighthouse was treacherous Deep in the sea of chaos that haloed me Ambushed by all of your strife Only to discover that you weren’t my haven The calm after the storm made me see You were the downpour from the beginning I started to understand why storms were named after people. Did you enjoy this story? Subscribe to our weekly newsletter to find out when new stories are published. [hubspot portal="4679048" id="962ea2a6-7b06-442a-90fd-58a7c8a4ecc9" type="form"] Learn how to join our Writers Cohort here. Follow us:
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I Went to the Sky and Back

By : December 28, 2020 Comments Off
The Sun and Moon were of the same Heavenly flesh. Cut from each other, weathered lovers sewn together, but ripped apart by the Red Sky’s envy. They walked hot coal clouds, barefoot and bare-hearted. The Sky is a lonely Hell. You can ask anyone who has been there, but no one knows more than the wives of broken  skies, who loved with silk atmospheres for centuries. That was before people came and built The Sky—built to burn. Envy is not green. It’s more red than liberated blood. Did you enjoy this story? Subscribe to our weekly newsletter to find out when new stories are published. [hubspot portal="4679048" id="962ea2a6-7b06-442a-90fd-58a7c8a4ecc9" type="form"] Learn how to join our Writers Cohort here. Follow us:
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Broken Serotonin Machine

By : December 28, 2020 Comments Off
There is something I must get off my chest tonightand I want you to know first of all that I'm okay and I'm not okay  The next time it happens never feels like it did beforeIt's always going to come at some pointBut it never feels like the methods I used last time would help right nowEach beast is shaped differently. I’m not sure how to tell you to help me I used to listen to the CD “When Broken is Easily Fixed” Must be nice— I’m not broken Is there a word for this? I'm not an artist I'm not a writer I'm not black  I’m not gay I'm not as smart as I pretend to be  My brain chemistry must be controlled by substances I can't control everything
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Sifting

By : December 28, 2020 Comments Off
I’m trying to sift between something tangible and something imperceptible something like that slightly wet and malleable sand that’s best for making sandcastles blue Play-Doh rubber cement cream sauce that’s been in the fridge overnight Jell-O gel medium cottage cheese or that mixture of glue, flour, and water for papier-mâché that’s too thick to work properly Something like him mansplaining the non-existent friendzone to you while you’re sitting on his face for the second time tonight, and the third time in as many days something like her messaging you on Facebook to break up with you when she has  your phone number or trying to decide if you should hold his hand or wait for her to hold yours is it too early to call her? 3 on the Kinsey
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Heaven’s Hell

By : December 27, 2020 Comments Off
when the moon was separated from the sun her flesh ripped like seams and she bled silver dust onto her lover when the sun turned away from her queen she found the sky is even more empty than hell one womb into two one heart split like an apple, its core something you wouldn't ever want to taste, but its strength lingers on the tongue. Did you enjoy this story? Subscribe to our weekly newsletter to find out when new stories are published. [hubspot portal="4679048" id="962ea2a6-7b06-442a-90fd-58a7c8a4ecc9" type="form"] Learn how to join our Writers Cohort here. Follow us:
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The Lake: A Sestina

By : December 27, 2020 Comments Off
Amid evergreen song, Mother Earth’s voice blares enough to conceal that of the boy—events that had long defined his hide from his obscurities. Was it the painted nails on masculine digits, the slight strut in his stride, or the two personalities he wore that made faces turn to an uneven arc? The same ones that upturn upon that bible verse: leviticus, sinful, a single color. Of course, the lake he stares into is stripped of its hues. Its once glinting color now stands dull with the rest of the onlookers: black and white, not enough. And though the refracted image of the boy, in hindsight, is him, neither the arc around his belt, nor his murky skin could hide his real image. An image that strings together two narratives into
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