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and yet i cannot write of youi am attracted to the broken,
the lonely, the nutcracker before he was made prince.
i am false in a way that shames me:
burning through daydreams instead
of looking for their existence,
lately i have neglected the self-induced
hallucinations i am prone to.
you are gorgeous in your honesty.
please do not love me,
i am afraid i will break you.
do not question the poems,
they are the only things tying me
to mortality; the only things i will give
i guard my secrets the way misers keep
useless pennies tucked between their eyelids,
savings for the day i stop giving out poetry
as if i could hand out my burdens,
and walk away like the skin ribs show through
never saw anxious fingers plastered against them,
forget the smell of blood, rubbing alcohol
wounds, confessions i have not been able to speak.
to be noti am combat boots. i am wishes on supernovas. i am washing away the year's dust, i am washing away the year's hurt. i am not paper-cuts, i am not ink stains, i am not words hidden in the moment before pen touches paper. i am the absence of regret, or guilt, or grief. i am never grief. i am never tears. i am never hysterical breakdown.
i am always hysterical breakdown clawing. i am never broken bones. i am never splinters. i am always accident: it was an accident i am an accident i don't know how that accident happened. i am always cold. i am never done writing about how cold it is. how it feels like i have ice for bone, i will melt in the warmth. you will see tears. you will see hysterical breakdown. you will see scars, and i will not know where they came from. i am a wreck waiting to collide with your confidence in me.
i am fifteen, learning to break promises. i am sixteen, wondering what part of older was sweet. i am seventeen, wishing i won't waste so much time trying to be what i'm
eight things that hurt more than a broken boneone,
i have never had broken bones,
but i imagine it would snap,
splinter, pierce my skin.
i imagine it would be
the pieces i cannot put back together
scratching their way out of
this body bag.
i imagine my demons would
not rest until my arms are torn
by the claws of my inside.
i'd imagine broken bones
would not hurt as much
as broken confidence,
(my lack of it.)
fluctuating positions in life.
the backbone of a dreamer
who finds nightmares her companion,
the fingertips of a mother,
pressed against feverish foreheads.
the lips of a teenage girl,
forgetting what truth sounds like.
i cannot remember the last time i did.
knotted hair pulled out at the roots.
nail polish remover spilled into wounds.
lips chapped red.
burned at the stake
dying on a scaffold,
unable to speak.
numbers on the scale,
tick-tack-toe on my wrist.
every blistering insecurity
that sends me spiraling.
agree to see the boy you like one last time.
(it’s not love, it’s crush and shitty timing
and first kiss.)
walk to the kitchen.
it is methodical, quiet.
stick your finger down your throat,
but don’t be successful. don’t be brave enough,
gag on disappointment.
brush your teeth,
not to scrub away bile,
but shame and chocolate and pain.
starvetoday, i don't hate myself enough
to deny the hungers for -
a cup of coffee that will treat me like sin dancing to the pulse of my bloodstream
the absence of guilt
cracks in personality
screaming poems silently at my reflection
today, i will gorge
on the things i vowed to give up.
today, i will break vows.
today, i am a glutton
for relapse and binge cycles,
for starvation and changing reflections.
tomorrow, i will wish
i could be the skeleton that
hangs in my closet.
[ leave the tears where they lie,
take the fallen stars and ripped up wings,
do not regret spinning circles
around vices. ]
this is how to dance for a crowdstop wishing on stars.
instead, wish on razor blades
learn to stop tears before they begin.
i have not given myself
time to grieve.
words will not be enough
to soothe your aches;
poetry will cause my recovery,
and every night after, when
i lose my secrets to a family
formed of ink-splattered mouths.
i cannot play games with emotions
when someone else's heart is on the line.
i hanged my own a long time ago.
weight loss is not a badge of honor.
the adults in my life have not
been responsible enough to keep
coloring within the lines;
they are canvases i don't dare throw
out, but cannot bear to look at.
boys are stupid.
four is too many in a family,
so we have become three.
or two sisters. or one girl.
or four distant planets
revolving around a home.
this is how to dance for a crowd.
heritagecome, china girl.
chase in the new year
with your firecracker eyes.
take the tattered remains
of your identity and sew
new clothes from the scraps -
red, to frighten away the
monster that ate villages alive.
red, for good luck, prosperity,
cheeks burning with humiliation.
china girl, when was the last
time you were true?
a heritage you threw away,
unproud of your almond eyes,
and other tongue,
confusing your words.
you were always decorated with
accents that you worked so hard
to get rid of.
the ground whispered.
there is something crashing against
you are holding back
a grief with the strength of
unnatural, and so so
hurt. you are strength
borne from suffering.
it gushed like her insides
were a dam that finally broke.
woman, it said.
she could not be a girl,
not when love washes out
with the tide.
gravity's holdsuicide is selfish,
and rightfully so.
when your mind bends back upon itself
with pressure enough to burst open the
floorboards of your stomach,
something has to give.
and though i refuse to jump from
ships before they’ve even set sail,
i know, before happiness unfurls itself,
before recovery is washed out by the tide,
when you are anchored in self-doubt,
leaps of faith feel less like jumping,
more like walking into thin air,
just to make sure gravity still has a hold on you.
sometimes, risks are the only way
to untie yourself
from this pier holding you steady.
sometimes i am greedy,
gasping for answers that slip from my hold
the way i lose track of hours in the night.
sometimes i forget my sanity
when inane solutions appear before me,
macbeth's dagger never seemed so tempting,
until it was turned against me.
happiness isn't always found the hard way,
after suffering, backward glances
reveal how blind i was to other paths.
still, i would not take back the journey,
it has taught m
forest firesmy signature scrawled across all
of your sentences like a stain of apologies:
i'm sorry for anchoring you to my hip
like a one-sided promise, like a flood of insincerity.
i'm sorry for collecting you like a well of wishes,
for whispering you into every crack in these walls.
i do not have the depth to tether our limbs
with the tautness of our smiles, but i will
balance you on the edges of my knees until
you slip away.
i have been kneeling with my arms outstretched
but the divinity of your touch
never graced my expectant stance.
our bones built forest fires together,
but it was always my tears putting them out.
ps: i love youautumn is near and you
are falling, fallen
you are blowing away from me
i have shaken myself
out of your barbed wire grip
i am cut to pieces
memories sing like sirens
as you pour from my pores,
and i will not cry,
i will not let you change me
i'm ripping you from my skin
like hot wax and plasters
and you do not even hurt
Summer romances are not promises.Summer in the city –
leaflets, flyers, little playthings of the wind;
planets that stepped outside the solar system;
these are the little things I can’t forget.
Freckles and smoke.
Charms and rhymes.
Her light yellow bike rusted from the rain.
It was a lemonade sort of summer,
spent writing down the sound of the sea
and tales from sunken ships.
Summer jam and citrus breeze,
drowsy head and folder wing
in a honey meadow shimmering near the shore.
We are all astronauts in the dead of night.
The first day of June was a miracle
filled with the smell of tea
in those mornings we shared;
the last summer day was full of the sadness
associated with a dying sunset.
Summer moved on,
left me playing with cold fingers.
We are planets,
distant as summer to winter,
pointing north but walking south.
The city lights are constellations
and I have loved the stars too fondly, but
everything’s gonna be Coca-Cola –
I stopped drinking iced tea and lemonade,
but keep the sky orange for
AnaphoraI am from unanswered letters and retro postcards tucked into a hollow book. I am from clacking copy machines beaming white light and stagnant, chalky air. I am from soundproof recording rooms. I am from oven-baked toast dusted with cinnamon; from bergamot and earl grey; from German chocolate that I never eat. I am from dead leaves on campus walks and words of encouragement given on the corner of “you deserve it” and “I’m proud of you.” I am from stained dry-erase boards. I am from mountains of colors and valleys of fog. I am from strands of unworn necklaces and earrings I’m allergic to and rings too small for my fingers. I am from blue ink splotches on essays. I am from unstable brick pathways; broken elevators; distant parking lots; clouded windows. I am from frantic typing and nearly-missed deadlines.
Be gentle, love.Be gentle,
my body is too heavy
hollowed out and
filled back up
Be gentle, love.
Be gentle and
let me lay here,
still and silent,
until my emptiness
NightfallAnd the sun crackles
the horizon into dust
while the moon glides
slyly forward to
taste the faded daylight.
The way we do in dreamsI'll climb the highest mountain's crown
in both the sun and moonlight's beams;
I'll reach as far as I believe
and live the way we do in dreams.
No Earthly bonds will tie me down,
no words will bend or break me,
for we can be as fantasies:
Let's love the way we do in dreams
incompletethere is a melody
inside this ribcage
but the world
has stolen the
there is a sadness
and an insanity
that is inherent
in the moments
we fall apart
but a dignity
and a beauty
in every day
that we do not
spring has come
but i'm not sure
if the flowers, yet,
or if the chill
sometimes i think
there is a madness
to a melody alone
but i remember
all there is left
i want to remember what love songs feel likevalentine,
i will break you.
you will be silent witness
to the way my heart swings
back and forth, back and forth,
like a grandfather clock
to the bombs i planted in my fingertips,
everyone i touch gets hurt.
this way, i have excuses not to get close to people.
though i can see me breaking all vows for you;
children i never meant to have,
a life i would not have imagined for myself;
sometimes you make me feel like
a caged predator.
all the anger i've learned,
all the fight i hold buried in my throat,
i become helpless.
i broke you broke me broke up,
kissed him a week later.
i am not sorry.
ReflectionsVal's pursuit led him to the foul beast's domain. The hollowed-out cavern reeked of blood and rancid meat. The dim light he had seen as he charged through the tunnel after the monster could now be identified: torches. Rows of mysteriously lit torches lined the walls of the huge cave. At its center was a substantially large labyrinth of mirrors.
He spotted the beast entering.
He spun his silver broadsword in his hand and hurried in behind it.
His garb was a simple blue and white crusader's leather with thick armored pads and reinforcing steel studs. Lightweight and flexible, but quite effective defense against blunt blows and – in a pinch – the slashing claws of the unholy spawn of the earth. All monster-hunters wore a similar variety in Val's experience. It would serve him well in these close quarters of the mirrored maze.
Right, left, forward, left, right he turned, always catching a glimpse of the beast's tail as he wove his way through the corridors. Every so often he sp
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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