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the break and breathing of a postmodern sappho

Message from Writer

Due to recent, very upsetting actions by the WtW team (and their ignoring of any criticism of the site), I've decided to leave the community. I wish I could tell you where to find me on Twitter and Prose, but the very reason I am rewriting this is because my previous message was deleted for having the audacity to share where you can contact me. I wish you all the best.


we are something to call my own

April 30, 2020


We lay on a second-hand couch in a shitty apartment with water stains on the ceilings that look like spilled coffee and shag carpeting that serves as the world's greatest eyesore and your lips are on mine.
Andrea Bocelli plays from a CD player in the background, we can barely hear him over the buzz of our hands on each others' bodies-- they roam freely.
We only placed the couch there to hide a wine stain plaguing the disgusting wall-to-wall.
We're too dirty too be clean and too clean to be dirty and we toast to living forever. 
You gently take the wine glass full of strawberry champagne out of my grip and set it on the end table.
We bought a fourteen pack of them-- you knocked one off the kitchen counter the first night we used them. You're clumsy like that. 
I wear nothing but your over-sized button up-- it smells of old books. I can't help but love the scent.
Thoreau and Beauvoir rest against each other on our shelves. They don't seem to like each other, leaning slightly into the other volumes surrounding them. Their pages are yellowed with age and we eat up every syllable with burning intensity.
We fall asleep that night pressed against one another as you softly read Proust aloud in a voice drunk with contentment. 
We are that of nothing else.
We are something to call my own. 


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  • April 30, 2020 - 10:55pm (Now Viewing)

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