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Daily Deviation
Daily Deviation
January 14, 2014
Powerful, painful imagery. Missing Girls by *swansisters
Featured by neurotype-on-discord
Literature Text
Missing Girls
These snippets of girls, broadsheets, ballads,
a one paragraph whisper in a smudged newspaper
beneath an ad for a pizza, two for one.
But they are singular despite their raveled tangled names.
They are still awake, a litany of how young girls die.
Delia is gone, 14 years old, cinched and muzzled with rope,
two bullets. He was pardoned. She sleeps somewhere unknown.
Her bones whisper to the unknowns. At least Delia has a song.
Johnny Cash sang about her, the Man in Black.
Did they bury her in black, a thrift store school dress
with sweat stained underarms?
They tell Delia of truck stop stores gaudy with harsh beaten light,
racks of DVDs of Country’s greatest hits. A bus stop smelling of aged urine.
He promised he would leave his wife, girlfriend, so many words.
In a church bathroom. He had a kind face.
Grainy posters stapled to telephone poles, taped to smudged windows,
small store billboards cramped with fading pleas
amidst ads for babysitting, massage and guitar lessons with golden stars,
when they were five they won them for perfect attendance.
But at least they were missed. Others confess
no one saw them enough to ask.
“I was this, a stripper, drab and murky club, cheerleader garters
but they loved my baby fat thighs.” ,
“I was this.... coked and floating above what my father did to me in the bath.”
“He talked to me after class so I ignored his hand that reached ever higher.”
Delia is gone as is the “Knoxville Girl”. What was her name?
Anyway she was murdered.
These snippets of girls, broadsheets, ballads,
a one paragraph whisper in a smudged newspaper
beneath an ad for a pizza, two for one.
But they are singular despite their raveled tangled names.
They are still awake, a litany of how young girls die.
Delia is gone, 14 years old, cinched and muzzled with rope,
two bullets. He was pardoned. She sleeps somewhere unknown.
Her bones whisper to the unknowns. At least Delia has a song.
Johnny Cash sang about her, the Man in Black.
Did they bury her in black, a thrift store school dress
with sweat stained underarms?
They tell Delia of truck stop stores gaudy with harsh beaten light,
racks of DVDs of Country’s greatest hits. A bus stop smelling of aged urine.
He promised he would leave his wife, girlfriend, so many words.
In a church bathroom. He had a kind face.
Grainy posters stapled to telephone poles, taped to smudged windows,
small store billboards cramped with fading pleas
amidst ads for babysitting, massage and guitar lessons with golden stars,
when they were five they won them for perfect attendance.
But at least they were missed. Others confess
no one saw them enough to ask.
“I was this, a stripper, drab and murky club, cheerleader garters
but they loved my baby fat thighs.” ,
“I was this.... coked and floating above what my father did to me in the bath.”
“He talked to me after class so I ignored his hand that reached ever higher.”
Delia is gone as is the “Knoxville Girl”. What was her name?
Anyway she was murdered.
Literature
how to become a writer
have parents that separate
when you’re in high school;
a father filled with unused anger
and a mother too busy to care.
pretend it doesn’t hurt.
let your friends treat you
like dirt;
after all,
everything is your fault.
listen to their problems with a fake smile
all the while crying out because
everything hurts and no one can see.
press a knife to your skin,
but be too cowardly to
draw your own blood.
fall in love with people
who could never notice you,
because you’re
just. not. good.
enough.
chew on the multicolored
strands of your hair.
(you can’t stop runni
Literature
Dead Bodies Don't Cry
i.
You are born with twisted feet
and a pockmark on your chest.
Your poor mother is drenched in sweat,
straining to breathe,
thanking God that it's over.
She cradles you in her arms
and kisses your forehead with curved lips.
Your father reaches out to hold you
but has to pause because
your mother will not release you yet.
The family pays a visit,
hovering in awe, praising, laughing.
You look around for someone to blame.
ii.
When you learn to write
you use all the wrong letters
because you feel sorry for the ones
that get left out, like X and Z.
And you wear mismatched clothes
because you don't like the idea that
only certain colors "go t
Literature
a modern ophelia
she found fennel beneath her pillow,
and felt the familiar flutter
of glassfish between her ribs.
to distract herself, she
scattered the reddest petals
in her bathwater.
she braided poppies in her hair
and, gasping,
let regret invade her lungs.
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I initially wanted to write about traditional murder ballads so I started with "Delia's Gone", but like anything else I write, the writing did what it wanted. Although since I am working on a non fiction piece on murder ballads, I think I will write about them again in my fictional writing.
© 2013 - 2024 swansisters
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Very beautiful, very sad, very true x