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Snowed It's all white. White uniforms and white hallways and white people and white everything. White robes on the priests, white hair on the picture of the pope that glares down at me, white floors and white socks and white lies. Sometimes when I look around catholic school that's all I can think and see and hear, the white, because everywhere I turn there's someone who looks perfect. They're all faceless, just different shades of hair and different shades of tans and different shades of smirks and different shades of lies.
The white comes from the little uniform shop that sits like a bunion on the corner of an office supply store. Oh they advertise We're Having a Sale but still a single white shirt costs twenty dollars. Twenty dollars you could spend on a whole trashbag of clothing and a heavy trench coat at Goodwill. Twenty whole dollars for one white shirt to make everyone equal. Twenty dollars to make the uniform shop happy and the school f
Hey Ashely It's Jared You're Black B101. That's my Catholic school locker number. 23-25-39, that's my combination though it doesn't matter any more because it's been a long time since I took my lock off the green door and attached it to a chain around my neck.
My textbooks are nothing worth stealing, with their covers falling off and the pages marked up. Trashed Biology, big thick Lit, Grammar and Comp that I hate, Spanish workbooks all three of them, a Catholic New Answer Bible being bent.
The locker isn't really mine. It's a depot, a convenient place to dump my weight and keep moving. Come the end of the year when I finally leave, nothing of me will be left behind. In and out, no scars left. Leave no trace.
Others have got wire locker shelves and mirrors and cute stickers and photos and papers taped up that say HEY SUZY I LOVE YOU. The inside of my locker is coated with white sticker residue, the rice left cooke
pray into my collarbone
let your snake tongue slither
with the syllables.
i wish for soft-chested nights,
and the trickle of champagne down crystal glass.
poppy-lips, lull me to sleep,
nurse my coiling tongue with yours;
tap my scalp like a silent drum,
and wind my hair in between your fingers
like broken guitar strings.
(serenade me with the buzz of pollen in your kiss.)
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^Nyx-Valentine arrived in our community and started whipping everyone into a frenzy with her relentless desire to bring the Artistic Nude and Fetish galleries to the fore. 9 years later, and it's safe to say that Nyx is not only a leader as a photographer in these galleries, but she has also established herself as a much saught after model. ^... Read More