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butterflies heartbeati want to love
than i write
than i scream
than sun loves skin
than the moon
loves the stars
than a butterflies
than equator's heat
falling on cracked lips
i want to feel the weight
of another's life -
their memories and dreams
and hopes and habits
pressing into my hips
and not shatter
underneath the weight
catharsisthere was an ephemeral calm, when you wrapped your arms around me.
for a moment, i thought you were going to never let me go.
you told me i was stronger than this, and it amazed me that my brave face
could fool you too
i will fade away, become only the tear stains on my desk and the words i leave behind
and it will not matter to me that you cry, because it never mattered to you
lay my body to rest, and take comfort in my mother's tentative eyes
and the fact that maybe i didn't lie
when i said that i will love you
for the rest of my life
.i have a feeling she would have loved to have seen these days.
the whole world has begun to unfurl itself in front of our nonchalant eyes, opening like the flowers in fast forward on movies; slowly at first, but then quickly, until its all there, waiting. she would have liked to have watched us take our first breaths of that new air, i think.
but then again, i don't know what she would have liked. maybe she didn't like anything.
and maybe that's why she's not here to open her eyes to a new world with us.
there was a picture of her on my wall all along, and i never even realised.
it's all green, and her face is covered, but it's her.
and really, that's all i have left.
there is a strange darkness that consumes these days too though. perhaps she saw it all coming, behind the thin layer of blonde hair that covered her when she was at her most beautiful.
it's a strange and scary thing, to see your friends die.
on growing upit will happen like this;
one day you will be so tired of yourself and the rolling days and the sleepless nights, and you've never liked coffee before but you'll take it and you'll mix in four sugars and you'll wince with every sip but you'll drink it all. then each step is a little lighter, and the mornings a little less cold and suddenly you'll realise you've forgotten what it felt like to just be awake all by yourself.
and one day you'll cry at school and all the people walking past won't stop and your friends won't have the right words like they used to. you'll sit and you'll shake until your tears have bled you of everything that you've got, and suddenly you'll realise you don't even have the energy to be sad anymore. and you'll go home with tear streaked cheeks and your mother won't ask you what's wrong and you'll go to bed and you'll realise that maybe there's more comfort in darkness and silence than you've ever known before.
it will be the weekend and you'll come home alone an
you're more than methere is a whole universe laying in the empty space between your rib bones. and whole, ever-expanding, glittering universe.
in the quiet hours of the early morning, your arm resting beside mine, you told me about the sky. with words like the sun and the moon and the whole fucking phenomena of life itself, cigarette between your lips, you spoke as if you were talking to an empty room, syllables falling from the back of your throat into existence and then fading as fast as they were created. it was dark, but your eyes were open and i know it. you weren't looking at anything though, just the emptiness and the blue wash of my bedroom ceiling that in the deepest part of your existence, wasn't really a ceiling at all. it was the corners of our galaxy, and you were there, peeking out into the unknown. through the darkness, you found something there and you held onto it.
and god, i think you even smiled into that darkness. i wrapped myself around you, and wished on every star you could see i
drowningi shot a hole through your heart,
and tore my own open
laid my beating heart at your feet
told you everything was yours
but to drown in each other's blood
has never been enough, hey darling?
[here i am again again,
trying to piece my life together
from fake purple flowers
that my mum bought me
and words that you won't read
my peeling, red lips
could tell you better than anything
though, what it feels like
to start every morning
with tears, and not know
what to do about it
because every time i leave this room
i am okay, and
i can smile
but it never really means much
and because of you
i wish that a man
would not see me
when i am crossing the road
and i would no longer
have to wonder if you talk about me
the same way you spoke about her
and you would wonder, at night
if i had seen him coming
and the truth is,
i probably did
don't be sorrysometimes i think i fell in love with you in a dream.
and when i opened my eyes, i felt as though i was still asleep.
and even though these words mean less to me than they will to you,
i write because it makes me feel like i can go back to that.
sometimes it feels as though i could write myself an entire world
and slip away, into the way everything should be -
fall into the world where everything worked out the way it should have
and i'm sorry that they don't
but this life is not a fucking dream anymore
and the touch of your skin feels real,
it feels harsh and uncomfortable
because i know that the more i love you
the more i'm going to hurt you
fuck i just wish i could love you
the way i used to
8.11you had secrets hidden between ribs
and laced into irises that had disappeared
behind black that many months ago
and i once looked too far into the quiet,
searching in blue water for the reasons -
but through muted orange you smiled
and through thick air you breathed them;
slowly, carefully - untying the ribbons
that held your spine upright,
and i caught your words in cupped hands
found them seeping through the warmth
of a thousand kisses strung along my shoulders
and tasted them in the sweetness of your
midnight smiles and mid-morning kisses,
and pulled them from the traces of moans
that you have left on my milk skin
and i know now that where you have bled
you have scarred, just as i - the pain stitched
into skin and bone, covered in bleach and thrown
into summer night air and the blue eyes of girls
that wore their heart as low on their sleeve as you
and you have crawled to me in the darkness,
spilling blood from your mouth and told me
that there was a pain that you could not hide,
the end, actuallylassitude builds
nests in my bones
as effective at becoming airborne
as the words "i'm sorry"
they just refused to try
the most prominent thought
circling my head
like the words that could soar
there is a big chance
we will not make it through the night,
that i will never be held
in the cage of your eyes
and trapped by a heart
i must be committing
but i do not know which ones-
there just might be
on the number of tears
you can shed
over one person;
we are not snakes
and cannot remove our skin
so we cry instead
but through the heat
i felt that sadness made
over the phone
i saw no end to us
where there would be
no end to us.
on clarity, seeing yourself as you arewe're all hypocrites here.
and we're all artists.
we paint ourselves
onto someone else like
it isn't painful for them,
like it isn't killing them
in the process. we give them
ownership of our failures,
we lay our flaws under their
tongues so when they speak,
more often than not, we hear
some distorted version of
ourselves. we expect them
to love the way we love. we expect
them to fight the way we fight. but yeah, we're
all fucking artists, right?
and we're all individuals, of course.
we're all on our brave, one-man
trip to enlightenment,
we're proud of the way
our word has been shaved
down to feelings, and moments,
mood swings, and oxy
off the bathroom sink.
well i can't be the only fucking
one who's tired of being an artist.
i can't be the only one tired
of seeing my skin stretched out over
everyone i know. i am tired of watching
my reflection shimmer and fade in their
smiles, in their wrath. i am tired of becoming
silver in one moment only to tarnish in the
next. i am tired of asking
i'm not your symphony but i'm orchestrated anywaysit's not easy to explain --
but i'm a rushed symphony of heartbeats, quick breaths and hiccups. i'm not made of skin and bones, but a complicated sentence structure and thoughts that i spew out before i even finish them.
i'm messy in all the wrong ways.
and i'm not right in any of the ways that matter. but still you're always here, picking me up when i fall, kissing me goodnight, making a life with me one day at a time. and you haven't gone yet but i'm always moving so how long can you stay. how long can i expect it. how long is too long when you're living and loving and breathing and hell, if i can't stay still i'll mess this up for sure. i just need a minute, to think, to stop, to be. so i can be yours forever.
all i know is that i'm a constant frenzy -- a kaleidoscope of words and ideas and minutes and clumsy steps and i don't know what i'm doing, but i'm always shifting and moving and growing and going and going
and going and
until i'm standing still again.
no one can stop
unlovenot all self harm comes
in the obvious form of lines up arms or down thighs
of throwing up insides and self worth
into toilet bowls with the sounds
that make you wonder how you're not dead.
she picked at her lips constantly
cracking and splitting
peeling and bleeding
more than expected
and it bled
more than ever anticipated
even after she's been doing it all day
she drank her tea that was still steaming
still made her hands flinch from the
far too hot porceline
but she parted lips
and felt it force it way down
burning and splitting
her lips and throat
like molten in her
ash filled stomach
pulling on skin
making underneath it
her blood like water colour
exploding and spreading
and mixing over
thighs and stomachs
no-one thinks to notice
on sitting across from a stranger at davis libraryi wonder if anyone has ever sat
across from you and wrote a poem about you
even though they don't know you.
i wonder if anyone has ever done
this for me. i hope when you go home
you don't wash your hair. i like that it's messy
and long. if i were a ladybug i would like to sleep
there. i would tunnel just beneath the top layer
and shudder my wings to a close and have dreams of fields
of wheat. i hope you can see how this is a good thing.
and i hope you don't change your clothes. i hope you wear
a sweater everywhere you go. i like that the one you're wearing now
is brown and without a pattern. its not ambitious or pretentious. if i
were a flea, i'd perch on your shoulder for company until i got hungry.
i wouldn't bite you and wouldn't know why in my tiny insect mind.
i hope you never wear contacts, and i hope sometime you fall
asleep with your glasses on. i hope you never talk on the telephone
except once a week to your grandmother. i hope you never peel your stickers
off your laptop, no
a thorough submissioni have found my heart-
it has put itself into this.
my hesitations are little more
than bad habits,
filed somewhere between
biting my nails and always saying i'm sorry.
the expectation of the winds
blowing softer til they ceased
ended with your mouth on mine;
the nerves fraying from fear
have been tended to with needle and thread;
and the water i so wiklfully wouldn't touch
feels warmer as it inches
like your hands
up my ankles to my bare knees.
i have found my heart-
it has put itself into this.
my stomach turns the ocean calm
when i think of the messes i'll make,
and the sewing you will stitch.
and i'm terrified
like nightmares that don't dissolve upon waking
for the ending weeks of winter
when you leave for the great missouri banks.
my heart is found,
put in this,
and slipping and mending
and messes commonplace,
i am finally feeling
the warmth the rest of this brings,
the fire i'd fought so hard
for no other reason
than to stifle our joy.
there's nothing that feels quite like this.Maybe the problem is that I don't know what a love story should sound like. I haven't figured out what order I should put the words in to make it read just right. I do, however, know what it feels like, but pushing around nouns and adjectives just to make it grow is the hardest thing I'll ever do. And it's true that I've tried it before and maybe I succeeded once, but since then I've learned the way real love washes through veins, and rumbles through the shifting and settling of bones until it changes you completely in a way that is absolutely unyielding. Perfect. Simple. It's not angry, or jealous, it doesn't hurt. It isn't like before. So now words don't come so easy, since I'm not sure which ones will cheapening the moments, the feelings, you.
And god, I could never do that to you, since the only thing I know with completely certainty is that you are the only thing that saves me. That moves me. That completes me. Without you, I'd be less than nothing. Alone. Forgotten. It's e
on skimming the surfacedear ex-lovers,
dear ex-friends, dear little brother,
i have taken all the posters down and my room is a skeleton.
i wonder why you are sad and i am not.
i have taken time and care to grow into these walls
to plant memories here, first fuck
first sleepless night, first question of suicide,
i have collected bones-
here see them in my closet-
i have broken them all.
love was not strong enough to keep me here,
and love is not strong enough, after
the commutei keep your kiss
under my bed:
i won't lose it
just because you aren't here.
i will hesitate in the spaces
between the weeks
we are together,
and we are
i will write you letters
and gaps and commas
when my head stops spinning
and my pride takes a bow
to the lion of my heart,
and feel the stinging air
seep out of its balloon.
put your (love) affairs in order, dear
and find me under your blankets;
i want the places i know best
to be the ones made of skin,
secretly tucked away
in the crook of your elbow
where my body rests, or
behind your ear,
like a pencil-
i want you to write me words
that make me start to hum.
othersidethis world gets scary sometimes
when i try to sleep, and i know that your hands
might not last another night
to hold mine
when i realise the fear,
the music and the smiles might just drown out
the only smile that has made
this existence mean
i heard about a girl
who drove on the wrong side of the highway
because she didn't know what else to do
she killed six people
i wonder what will happen
when we collide; will we burn out
or fade away, a pile of
charred metal and dreams
i know you are still the boy
who cries because he misses his mum,
because the creases in your palms
have not changed
and the uncertainty in your voice
my bones waste away
under the command of your voice,
slurred and vague
because you are the only thing
i will let hurt me
but writing poems about you
has always been a bad omen
Inspector Wolf The old lady was dead. I could smell it before I even got into the house. The whole place reeked of adrenaline, sweat, fear, copper and steel. He’d dropped her right in her living room. Chopped and chopped until she stopped moving. But I could tell I was getting close. This had been done in a hurry, and the killer didn’t have the time to clean up after himself like he usually did.
Across the room, the phone rang. The shrill sound set my teeth to grinding, but I ignored it. Instead I followed the killer’s bloody footprints into the back bedroom. He’d climbed out the window. If I hurried, I could catch up to him and end this disgusting spree he was on.
Then the answering machine kicked in. “Hi, Gramma! It’s Red. Sorry I’m running late. I kind of lost track of time. But don’t worry. I packed the picnic and I’m heading out the door right now. Love you.”
She’d been expec
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scheinbar is a much-loved and well-known deviant. Just one look at her gallery, filled with enchanting photography, will have you mesmerized. A deviant for over 7 years, Christiane can always be found posting inspirational features as well as regularly commenting on other deviations and encouraging and empowering her fellow deviants. We are inspired and insist that you too stop by and congratulate ... Read More