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a writer's heart by. eve gore

Drilling my dreams into the ground to the beat of my shoes,

Muttering affirmations, setting proclamations

Deep in the stone,

I remember what I was born for.


The first thing I ever felt -

“My thoughts are bigger than my body.”

My emotions like undecipherable spots in the dark,

Swirling into strangers who watched me sleep.


Until I found if I paired my thoughts with the strangest of sights,

Like apathy and the corpse of a bird,

Like sadness and black Siberian snow,

Only then could I feel my soul waver under the skin.


It is this moment of childhood that will linger,

When poetry released like a burgeoning bubble from my throat,

And a wish for my life bloomed,

This wish that shall leave me empty in old age

If I do not heed its call.


I am older now and wondering what parts of myself to give,

How long to let the voice gnaw at my sides?

How many bones to throw—

So the words will still spit out of me.


The same dreams run close, they did not stay in this body,

Sometimes I see them on the train tracks,

Frantic genderless bodies trampling each other to press against the window

Their faces gauntness and intentioned.


Long fingers pass through the glass, gently peel back my chest,

To show me that still I walk with the gem of a writer’s heart,

It is in there, I see it,

I reach for it, let it lift me higher, higher, higher—

It is beating.




 



Eve Gore (they/she) is a 21-year-old poet from the UK. They write about gender, nature, identity, and lesbianism through an obscure, surrealist lens.


Painting by. Francis Danby (Disappointed Love, 1821)

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