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Alaina Moore Jun 2020
The relief of sheet and blanket, nestled between hands and heart.

Floods my being with irrational safety and solace.

I never want to leave.
natalie Jun 2020
whisper in my neck
wrap your arms around me
tell me you love me
EL Borromeo Jun 2020
fly her to far-off skies —
miles and miles
away from piercing storms and tears;
send her to a new place,
embraced in a safe space
away from the pain that wildly sears;
lull her to sleep
and wipe away her silent weeps;
let the weariness disappear —
dispel, dispel all unnecessary fears.
Elisabeth Meyer Jun 2020
I come from a broken home
And all I want is a home
A place, a person, a feeling
Something that is indestructible and timeless

Yet I quite bluntly realised
I need to be that place
I need to be that person
I need to be that feeling

For myself is the only thing that stays forever
Empire Jun 2020
She’s afraid of progress
Will it mean she forgets?
Abandoning the part of her who suffered?
She wants to hold her close
Embraced in healing, love, growth
But for that part of herself
It’s still happening
She’s still suffering
She’s still struggling
And the tighter she’s held by safety
The louder she screams that she’s not safe
Brooke P Jun 2020
Prisms casted rainbows
that danced on the walls
from the mirrored doors my uncle installed
onto my bedroom closet.
Just like that,
the old brown wood was discarded
and, in its place,
a heavier, more durable barrier
between my private belongings
and the hellscape I was forced to inhabit outside of them.

More often than not,
they were a barricade between
what I didn’t want to hear
and the comfort of old dance costumes
and holiday dresses I’d outgrown
all lined up in a row,
soft robes to melt into after a bath
and my trusty, fuzzy pink earmuffs.
I paraded around the house in them,
as a symbol of the silence I desired
or a more obvious cry for help.

I remember when we went to Lake George and didn’t return
and how I didn’t understand why we couldn’t just go home.
I didn’t want to stay on vacation,
I wanted to sleep in my own bed.
I remember smashing my hands
against my ears
to keep out the shouting
and sitting awake in bed,
waiting to hear the garage door to go up,
because then I knew you’d be home
and you’d be safe, and we’d be safe
and we could all fall asleep in the same house,
whether my happily ever after
was based in reality
or a bedtime story I told myself every night
so that I could finally rest my eyes
in hopes that my mind would follow.
Milan Thomas Jun 2020
I find comfort in the whisper of your voice, as your breathe softly awakens the hairs on the back of my neck.
Shelter in the warmth of your skin at 2am when the streets have fallen silent.

As your hand rests delicately on the skin below my chest the world around us slows and for a brief moment my mind is at home.

But once the door closes behind you it’s as though 10,000 stars are stolen from the sky and in that moment a dark shadow begins to dim the once glistening light.

As our movie draws to an end and the credits begin to roll,my eyes trace your silhouette in the dark where it once lay.
My breath leaves my body heavy now,as though I’m gasping for something I can no longer see, feel or touch.

It’s as if all of a sudden the roof over my head is torn away with a gust of reality
Realising that the shelter I felt was only temporary.

A stopover, an escape, just another passing moment.
Realising that it can never be mine to take because for someone else that warmth is more than just shelter, it is a home.

A warm, welcoming smile after a long day at work.
A safe embrace on days when tears begin their stream down the curve of her flushed cheek.

She’ll find comfort in the way you hold her hand, fingers intertwined like the roots of the most delicate flower.
Safety, in the way your arms pull her closer in the night, the warm skin of your chest gently pressing against her as she falls back; blissfully, into a dream.

A dream, that’s how our moments felt. The whole time I knew I had to wake up eventually, it was a ticking time bomb I’d tried so hard to disarm. Sometimes I thought that maybe,just maybe if I squeezed my eyes closed for a second longer, I’d get just one more moment with you.

One more of those mornings, eyes still heavy with sleep as you reach for my hand beneath the sheets.
One more aimless walk through the park, weaving through crowds of slow moving sun seekers, searching for colour in the dried up flower beds.

Maybe this time if I knew it would be the last, I could take it all in for just a few more seconds. Just a little longer so I could remember how it all felt. Every sweet hum of laughter, every vulnerable tear shed, every time you made me feel whole and human.

Funny thing about time is, those few more seconds are something of fiction. Only in fairytales and on the pages of children’s books does one more moment really exist.

So instead, I’ll write for you these words that you may never hear but I’ll try. I’ll fight bravely with my own mind in the battle to press send; because I need you to know, I have to tell you because some things cannot be left unsaid.

You made me feel at home within myself, at a time when I felt so far from any light, a time I had been wandering alone down the dark streets of my own thoughts and for that I will be forever grateful.
Zywa May 2020
The word has been indestructibly
poured, swept and guarded
it has leveled pimples and polyps
of boulders and trees
straightened noses and washed ears

with rules and shame
because no one should get lost
there is no more room for it
in the Street of the People

for the Book of Changes
teaches that
nothing can be done
in case of dissension

The word has become sugary-sweet
daily a pill against boredom, it has become
supervision and volcanic concrete
one sauce for goose and gander
it lives among us

To the south the gardens are empty
to the north the Butterfly People
and Tibet are museums with explanations
in the colours of the new era

because the word is for everyone
and except for those close to you
everyone is everyone to everyone
Everyone is everyone
Yijing = Book of Changes

Since 1500, Europe imported sugar from India to make medicine pills

Piripkúra = People of the butterflies

Collection “PumicePieces"
Douglas Balmain May 2020
Her rib cage splayed
and knees felled away
from each other,
she lay as a refuge,
an invitation:

Climb in, stretch my skin
over yours—
it's warm and dark inside,
you need not come out
until you are ready.
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