aytatptntytycibin the doll's headthe cub's, duckling'sthey justclimb-ed that tree toohigh swam too deep in the pondtoday and it is just an accident there isNO SUCH THING AS SAD DON'T lie to medolls don't feel theseprecious pearls of feelings like you and I knowdreaming like us we're special, specialand it's not like it's baby animalsthat diethe mostanyway?
bee's poemhere is a poem with a mission statement:the dark days are over.and i'm going to lie, because youneed it like medication, believe mei'm real, this is so true likeangels evenyou're going to be okaysometimes we make mistakes andsometimes we kill andsometimes we search tirelessly in encyclopedias for our name, hoping for a good story to fall asleep to and some security blanket in black text that promises a happy endingwake up, the bells are ringing, tooand not in your head this timeplease breathe, do sing, try laughter, andi look in the mirror and cannot judge mylaundry-downed appearance, i only crywith the enormous joy of knowingi am alive
in my dreams, you were there.i think it's been raining for like a week now andi will continue living in my room, like i am the little house in the snowglobeand you can't touch me.nanny nanny boo boo.glass armor for your sticky touch, but i can't hide from prying eyesi will only hope that you continue shaking this silly little objectand sheltering me with more snow and water.i live on the shelf. a girl walks in, thinking about a magnolia tree she passed on the roadhow the wind blew so wantonly that it stole every petal of every flowerleaving only one in a token of appreciation, thank-you-for-the-memoriesshe finds herself becoming that tree."i could be beautiful," she says solemnly, tracing her doorknob to smear the fingerprints."this one flower is proof. only you have to find it and trust it."and nobody trusts a girl in a snowglobe.it will keep raining for a long time. i will lose faith in the sunshine, and find solace in the lack of it.i will wear pearlsi will sing often and pen verse.i will sleep
kill peacocks on sight.the taste of such a bitter paintplaquing against a pretty smilei cannot show myself to the light of day, no,cannot leave an accustomed shadowhad i valued my birds, i would have knownthe dissenting value in clipping feathersembraced a crow, a dove, a jay, a hawk; forgettingi let the peacock roam wildleashless, a masterpiece taken by thieveswith no true homebut sitting with them in a cage, now, i seetasteless truth:it wanted it that way.who does a bird go towhen its nest is taken for study?there are no eggs to hatchno gale to tamea lack of song to give?the swan, she justlays in the lake andcannibalizes.
In Transit TG: so thenTG: the moon started drifting awayTG: and i was going to fly upTG: and take it to the sunTG: and i said something to youTG: or i was going toTG: like say bye or somethingTG: but you were just standing there not saying anythingTG: holding that ball of yarnTG: and thenTG: oh---You are on the moon. You are finally an Angel of Space, though more commonly known as the Seer of Light, but the way the hollow wind is gusting through your wispy hair and making the air feel swollen and light is something like having wings.Only you wish that this was not leading to your death. Yeah.But maybe you shouldn't think that. You know it's entirely understandable that you are thinking that, and anyone in your situation would wish for that at least microscopica