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xylicyou used to tell me we're too young to be in love.
we're too young to lay so close that the bridges of our noses press together, so that our eyes blur into a smudge of iris and lashes and our senses are consumed with just each other. we're too young to understand what that means - to be consumed by one another. we're too young to breathe into each other's necks and feel as though that warmth is all there is left in the universe. to feel the fall away, to feel for a fleeting moment, without limit.
i think what you meant is we're too young to have that taken away.
we're too young to sleep alone, to know what it feels like when it hurts to smile. we're too young, too weak and too fragile to have our hearts broken. to have our entire worlds crumble at our feet and have to search through the rubble to find what's worth keeping, worth rebuilding.
but you know, i've fallen into my own grave too many times to care.
so when you tell me next, i will explain to you that if i was to die tomorrow,
giving upMy father once told me that I was the kind of person who should never give up on anything. I was young, I had no idea what he meant. He leaned into me, stared into my bright eyes and told me that the world becomes a scary place when you're older. It eats you alive, if you give up.
He was sitting on the other side of a terracotta coffee table, on the back porch of our old house, grape vines clawing their way up and around the wooden poles on either side of him, the sunlight beginning to shine through their thin, bright green leaves. This is how I remember him now between the grape vine frame, cigarette in his hand, one knee curled up to his chest and a smile spread across his not yet darkened face. This is how I like to remember my father. How he was when he was happy, when he was young and innocent and he lived as though he knew the whole world was bowing to him; waiting at his fingertips.
Sometimes though, I can't help but remember the way he'd cry every time he'd call me for m
but yousilence unfolds, breaking and falling
like the young and the blind, like the
rhythmic pattern of sun and rain
and i grow hollow and eternal, fingertips
tracing the hollows of your shoulder blades
while the night holds its breath for us
damp orange light dances stale ballet
with the smoke trailing your jaw, and your
eyes make me feel like this pain -
no, it never existed
born to dieit has been a year
since you have made me cry
always being second
eats at your bones
and low standards
lead me nowhere
invite you over for dinneryou've always been a fire,
haven't you sweetheart?
always a burning flame
flickering red and yellow
and blue and the whole
spectrum of human emotion
you are tearing my flesh
from the bone - blackening
heart from your heat
but fuck, i'll still
invite you over for dinner
because you are the smoke
to my mirror; the one
that obscures my face
utopiayou are a king
on a dirty couch;
laying waste only
and i fall again
into your hands;
in your breath and
and you take me,
i will take your love
and run -
is all i know
wish upon a starthe air is always cold this time of year, you once told me as we lay in bed, warm, watching the last few seconds of christmas eve fall away. you whispered merry christmas in my ear, ran your hand along the the valley of my waist and told me that you had the best christmas present ever. i didn't need to ask what it was, because i already knew.
'this time of year, miracles come true,' i could tell you were murmuring through a smile into my shoulder 'if you just close your eyes and wish upon a star hard enough.'
giggling, i closed my eyes and wished that i would wake up next to you. when you asked me what i wished for, i turned to face you, and through a succession of small kisses i whispered that i couldn't tell you, or it wouldn't come true.
god, we always thought we were so young.
you know, i have closed my eyes every year since then, and wished for the same thing. this year though, i lay in my double bed alone, sheets littered with cigarette burns and little pieces of wrapping paper.
all the starshello, my name is rachel and i'm lost.
i'm fighting for a lost cause, for what i don't understand, striving for a success that leads nowhere, pushing through each day only for the nights when i remember how to breathe. i'm struggling to sleep, but dying to escape. i create universes in my head in which everything is okay, and i am not afraid and my hands don't shake and other people are the ones with problems -
but i'm slowly realising that everyone has problems.
i bleed words that mean nothing, and spill colours when there are no words. i have a thousand reasons to be happy, but don't understand one of them. i have a thousand people to trust, but hurt all of them. i drink when i'm alone because blocking out reality seems easier than accepting it. i am always the strong one - a fiery ball of passion, filled with every form of fear, doubt and regret in the world. i am the one everyone leans on, i am the strong shouldered, head high, don't give a fuck girl - and i am everythin
on hindsightif you would have told me
i will love you conditionally,
when i am feeling good, but not too good
because when i feel my very best i will
not need you, when i am feeling bad,
but not too bad because at my very worst
i will hate you.
i will stand with you provisionally,
so long as i do not have to stand very long
and i can take breaks from you as i please-
i will look into you tentatively
and reach the decision that i am better than you,
that you are one big fucking joke, that i have
a higher calling to marijuana and making
temporary homes inside of nice, but stupid
if you had told me that now when we talk
it's only because you want to know who i'm fucking
and where i'm at and what i'm doing not because
you care about me, but because somewhere in the
back of your mind you claimed me and even though
you are not stepping up to fill your position as
high conqueror of my cunt, you expect me not
to look for satisfaction elsewhere.
if you had told me that i would waste the past few m
on being free, chained, and whatever's in betweenhey, it's me. it's christmas eve. and well i know you know that, but i feel like if you save this message, it will be important to know that it's christmas eve or something. i'm alone and it's christmas eve. all i can do is move the way the music moves me and i feel like i need to be oiled. i'm not moving the way i want to be moved. i'm not really saying i need to be fucked or anything i just need a body to remind me what joints do. or i mean how they're supposed to feel. something like that. i don't even want to be in love. i don't love you anymore. i don't know who you are. i knew you once in the summer and in the fall and in the winter and in the spring and in the summer again and a little in the fall too. i knew that you were an untameable fire on a rampage but i did not expect you to burn your own body and you burned me too i'm not even sad i'm just so mad at you i'm so mad at you and i'm a little drunk and i'm a little fucked up and i'm not even sad i swear to you i'm not sad.
the look to letting you goi hope i ruined
like a smudge
i like reminding you
of the things
i am sure you proudly
ache my heart,
when i try
bookmarked my skin
where you last
so that i may
open the pages
and read us
when i feel a little
all i want is to look across
a span of space-
a floor, a bed,
the breath between
and see another
holding me like light
within warm eyes.
it is likely
we will not make it
through the night;
in this case,
i hope that,
with my last,
i learn to love
these are the last things i'll say before i'm goneIf I had to give a name to what I'm feeling I would just call it disappearing. Because it's exactly like the way that you can know everything about someone one day and nothing the next. It's the quick death love has that leaves you wanting more or wanting it back in the best and worst of ways.
If I had to explain I would say this feeling is something like standing outside of your door at four in the morning, even though I know I shouldn't be here, wearing the same wrinkled clothes I had on the day before, wanting nothing more than to beg to come home, but knowing better, because following the motions isn't really the best follow through.
I won't admit how much I miss you I can't, but I can tell you this.
The thing about disappearing is that it doesn't stop me from wanting to be completely impossible to forget. And maybe that's a bit of an anomaly, but I've never made much sense to begin with anyway.
And sure, we're all different in the same ways, but I want to be differen
portraiture of humanitythe sound of the shutter echos in the small room.
"there's nothing like a smile," he says, "to show others that you're happy on your own."
he sits with his legs crossed at the ankle, his long pants the color of a summer midnight sky, his suit jacket matching, his hair the same, all a dense, buttery black, the word "noir" in french with the scent of expresso, the caress of the tongue, the shimmer of sexuality beneath the thick opacity.
his skin is pale, with obvious veins showing blue-grey in his hands. the smoke of his cigarette is desperate, coming off of him in clouds.
"you'd think it's hard to be an asshole," he says sweetly. he flicks ash from the end of his cigarette.
"but it's not."
i adjust the lighting. he adjusts his position in the armchair. we square off, looking each other in the eyes, keeping a wary respect tucked in the corners of our mouths. along with that, in the soft crinkle of that mouth, he has a laugh, a curse word, a fuck-off. in
small musingpeople are always so
sad about caged birds
the fish in the bowl?
the nature of the soul?
the arrow and the bow?
the turtle, a slave to his shell
never running, always hiding-
walls, small devils and taut strings.
i am not so sad about the bird
in the cage.
what i am most sad about is
the look on my own face when i heard
you said you wanted me out
of your life for good.
i am a slave to old
grudges and i am
too proud to
these oceanic arteries are killing me. (collab)i'm drawn to the ocean in a way that's anything but beautiful. i don't want a welcome embrace, i just want it to consume me. 'cause the ocean is so heavy and right now i'm so fucking fragile.
so i'll stand waist deep with the water curling tightly around me, lulling me further from the shore with the safe sung whispers of the wind as i let the waves crash into me. so that with each ebb and flow, piece by piece, the ocean can wash me away from you.
i can see myself crumbling away like the cliffs that surround the peaceful waters, and i wonder if you're as fragile as i am right now. my breathing patterns have changed, as i don't want to be anything like you at all ever again.
it's not anything i'm proud of -- the way our worlds shifted and turned and collided to make the currents wash up on these shores with each of us standing at opposite ends of this expanse of water with no hope, no reason, no love, but it's the way things turned out. and now i should know better than to change everyt
Vanguard, Chapter 1: DuncanDuncan's Journal: Day 1288
I consider myself a good man. I respect women, elders, my equals, and the dead. I say a morning prayer, and an evening one. Hell, I even thank the gods for a meal, instead of immediately chowing down in the voracious manner as the other soldiers here do. By all logical means, I should be in paradise. No really, not just because I'm a good man, but also because I should be dead by now. So I ask myself: why, oh gods up there, have I ended up in hell?
1288 days. 1288 days of my life have been spent in this misery, and I'm beginning to lose faith in the glory I was promised. Some of the rookies still live in their ignorant bliss, but I've lived long enough to realize that there's not much glory to find here. “Sing the songs of glory and march into battle—-join The Crusade today!”. Such were the words of the posters The Crusade has spread all over The Mortal Realm. Gullible fools practically stand in line for these songs of glory that th
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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