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Combining Blackouts

by Olivia Dodge about a month ago in surreal poetry
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I’ve spoken of your hands pulling me beneath tides and clouds in every season for my palms are ready to burst. I wonder if the sun would watch the second my spine is ashes. October happens every fall but never felt so angry. My anger poured into a person. Feeling is the closest thing to home. It is not sunny enough. My vices did not turn to minutes. I hope life in the eruption did not burn with your fingertips and my bones— they would exist for me. My feet flinch on his skin. Nothing could feel the same. I let a page flip to my fingers. This page was in my dreams— my mind’s realm. He should evaporate from the north. At 30,000 feet my anger felt distant. I beg of you and the seasons which drowned me. Sitting next to me I felt longing. Pieces spewing upon my palms for I should matter. Wrapped in warmth— the moment is enough. He will know his inspiration may have been brewing like bees and crushed leaves over the years— never in October.


surreal poetry

About the author

Olivia Dodge

20 | Chicago

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