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if I angle just so,
and cut in ribbons
instead of lines
my skin will finally fall away.
I won't have senses
yet I will feel everything.
No one will see me,
but I can fix everything.
Piece by piece,
in the ocean of the soul.
Let them feel the vibration;
let them feel the absence.
Released, they will
fix it themselves.
what I have left behind:
crawls into my skin;
the maggots and rot and filth.
saving the world
from being saved.
AmerigoI bear the skin
once soaked in the blood of genocide.
I inherited the will
of a flightless dreamer, a fickle hero.
The hero was a pawn
in the spiderweb affairs of
the place I call home:
a home full of strangers,
with shrapnel stuck in the walls
like graffiti; professing freedom as we snatch it away.
This is my home,
They will not be my prison.
Alice, Don't Jump!wait! please,
[feet, calm your anticipation
brain, control your curiosity]
Alice, don't jump!
tell me something first.
will you take me with you?
I've seen what's down there -
I know what we're up against.
(well...the costumes vary
and the faces are fickle
but I can be useful, I promise!)
[down there, I'll know -
for once -
what to eat, to drink
what doors to open]
Just follow me, Alice!
It'll be easier
if you close your eyes -
and get used to
of never leaving.
we could be together
[I could live inside your head
and become as small as I need,
or as tall as I want]
take my hand, Alice
any road you choose,
ColdHis simplest request
takes all of my effort.
- like it's nothing.
But I'm afraid
I've given them all away.
The truth is so dense
and the lies are piling on.
So much to know -
so much to know how to ignore.
I have two choices:
remain ignorant. A hypocrite, sickened by loneliness
wanting to howl and claw at the closed door
waves stealing my air, bruising -
saturated with new words
Ask me about my day,
But you won't get the sunshine and glitter
that you need
to pull you from your own pit.
Just poke at
the cold ashes
and pretend that they can warm
TrampledHis voice is a tortured scream dragged over broken glass. His eyes are loaded guns, death-black bullets taunting me from within barrels the color of despair, the color of drowning.
The Grinch takes notes on this guy.
He came to our middle school at the end of sixth grade. Posed no threat. Something about me pissed him off in seventh grade. I was a little too fat, talked a little too loud, dressed the wrong way. Not that I was trying to please anyone. But the first time I heard that word leave his lips, my middle school days became a downward emotional spiral I still claw my way through to this day.
cow (kou) noun
1. An adult female of cattle, raised especially for her milk.
2. An adult female of some other large mammals, including seals and whales.
He started with this animal and then many more followed - some names were his, some from his friends. Pig. Walrus. Whale. Chewbacca. Before the school year was over I was an entire
TrailblazingLook at how far we got!
…all the way to a dead end sign.
And maybe you were just being practical
when you turned back,
while I was the one
tugging on your hand, shouting,
"TRAILBLAZING!! Look, we can make it,
if we cut through the briars and jump over the snake pits!
Who cares if there’s an ocean on the other side?
We can cross that, too!”
AestheticsThe thoughts I conjure
just before I fall asleep
are soaked in your scent, and I can still feel
your mouth in the ephemeral eternity
when it met my skin,
but I don't know
how long it takes you to fall asleep
or where you pause when you read aloud
or where your memories travel when the vibrancy
in your eyes
The BalanceIn lucid streets,
the air I take in
to sigh at the marvels
[ - of light
reflecting shadowed rumours - ]
has been stolen.
Instead I am scurrying
with hushed footsteps and a covered mouth
masculine voices slurring behind me,
asking if I'm drunk.
We eventually learn
that even in persecution,
justice might not follow.
We learn to balance
'slut' and 'prude',
'shallow' and 'vain'
We learn to clutch car keys like knives
but to not blame the poison for its sting...
...to have a seat at the end of the table
branded, "This is your equality. Quiet Quiet.
Are you happy now?"
Appear OfflineIt’s easy to miss you in the 21st century
with a little green dot next to your name
with a myriad of ways to grasp across the distance
but my phone has broken
your internet’s terrible
and facebook chat never works
so I’m left to miss you by candlelight
watching a lonely sea
debating a letter
wondering how anyone ever coped
My Dear Sons and DaughtersFall in love with everything
Fall in love with ideas: anarchy
and LaVeyan Satanism.
Fall in love with solitary back-packing
through Israel or Mexico.
Fall in love with gamma radiation
or tiger-taming, MMA cage fighting
or free-climbing the Rocky Mountains,
but do not fall in love
People will want you
for your similarities to one
or more of their parents;
they will want you
for the outline, the concept of you;
they will want you
because you want them –
they will not know
what they want.
People will take the bed you shared
and fuck other people
in the barely cooled indent
of your absent body
(they will also take your cat,
leaving you with scarred hands
and nothing for them to stroke).
They will promise to never leave you
and maybe they won’t,
but they will buckle you in with them
on the bipolar-coaster,
left flying off unfinished tracks,
and you will have to jump,
They will be perfect
except for little things –
answering their pho
All of Youacrylic paint crusts over
on the frostbitten razors
of your Armageddon days.
a storm is born every few
seconds in my saltwater lungs
and my mind is caught in
a torrent of just you and
our atoms collide, but
you slip through the
patchworks of my veins
and you're glad that we didn't immerse,
glad that you have the delirious surface world to your disposal.
congratulations, i guess.
you pick a crescent tide
from the mourning aqua
and then tell me i'm out
of my mind.
i think i might be out of
my mind, but this braking
music refuses to let me
slip from its dripping trebles.
i sink under the waves
but find that i can breathe
better than i could in air.
i draw you in with me too.
what use is the ocean if i can't drown?
Chasefor you i would catch summer
like a teen catching glory on a lean silver bicycle-
ripping through the streets of Triumph and Nostalgia
as if i could conquer or escape each one
and rise- rise- rise with the reddening
of your cheek as it mirrors our desire-
i will chase you until my starving hands
can feel no curves; until my eyes cannot contain
the bursting of your colours like parachutes on a stale
blue sky; until my mouth no longer tastes the days of August
on your lips-
your season lingers
like a haze in the sahara:
some oversaturated mirage,
or maybe just a miracle
that winked out too fast.
HyperawareI know the thumping of blood in my fingers,
the twinge in my back,
the tension behind my calves far too well.
The bristle of cold is too much
but the silence without the fan is suffocating.
My blankets are too heavy,
settled over my torso like the rock in my chest
but I can’t sleep without the weight.
This awareness is a manifestation of my longing;
for your hands in my hair,
your warmth at my spine,
your shoes on my floor.
This is what I feel when I can’t feel you –
fixations that drive me to insomnia.
Only the trains are any comfort,
plowing away into the night
screaming here I am; there I go
like world-weary tramps moving just to be moving.
Like you, working just to be working,
burning midnight oil and paper
when you could be breathing fire down my neck.
for Erkyou must have heard by now
that diamonds are only made
beneath a million pounds of
you must have heard by now
that pearls are only made
as a form of self-defense;
but darling, have you heard
someone tell you to your face
that you are brilliant,
beautiful in your own skin, in
every freckle, every frown,
in every graceful good morning
and every war waged and weathered
in the marrow of your bones -
you are so much more
than the scars you wear
and the stories they will tell;
you are so much more
than the lines you will draw
in love and laughter
and landscapes made alive;
you are so much more
than the climb you have yet
to conquer -
you must have heard by now
that we are all of us newly made
every seven years;
you must have heard by now
that we are none of us prisoners
of our past, but products of it;
but if you have not heard by now
that every new day and every disaster
is another chance to write bad poetry
and another chance for someone to
holding hands into the nightThe starships align in a billowing constellation of gravity and shimmer down on the firefly-studded cities below.
the rain brings sweet whispers of hushed voices in the night, when the tires squeal against oil and someone realizes that they love someone, too.
There's a day when the cacophony of chitchat is cloaked in chocolate and lined in velvet, and nights are reserved for twilight-soaked kisses and blooming roses.
little girls wash their faces of innocence and swipe on glittery lipgloss, while the older sit in their car, swabbing mascara over their eyelashes and praying to someone that they'll be picked. something waiting in their locker. doe-eyed as if someone plucked the stars from the sky and stuck them in their pupils.
Puppy love fires its tinted arrow at unsuspecting teens, and does away with stereotypes in favor of scarlet and magenta wishes. Smoke and mirrors pirouette around the world, as one person after another come down with a case of heavy crushes.
but it's not like ther
a map to icebergsHere is the truth: there is ice floating behind the calm of your eyes and the set of your jaw warns me to tread lightly around you. You are an iceberg, strong and silent and frozen to the world, and I am a shipwreck just waiting to happen. One of these days, we're bound to collide.
Here is the truth: I've tried to scale your frozen walls a hundred dozen times but I always find a way to fall down. You are an insurmountable force of nature, and I can't help but stand in awe of your distaste for things that are not your own. My timber limbs are drawn to you and I can't stop myself.
Here is the truth: I fall asleep counting the ways your expressions change. You have a different face for every mood and sometimes, I say something stupid just to watch your eyebrows shift. You are a hurricane and I am the ocean, swept along beneath your layered skirts, shattered and shaking, just trying to follow your lead.
Here is the truth: you are always one step ahead of me, and I think I might be using a
Seam StressThe heaviness settled in like an anvil being dropped on me. I couldn't take the fog inside my head and the lead inside my heart anymore, so I sat in the sun to melt it away. I wanted to sear every surface until I couldn't feel anymore. What kind of life is that, though, to never feel anything? To never feel the joy of love; the way it wraps its arms around your heart and traces its fingertips along your veins? Even the pain of looking back at love's scattered memories is necessary to understand how beautiful the feeling once was; how lucky you were to have ever felt its lips press to your cheek, its breath collect in the hollow of your neck. Love does these things, sews itself right up inside you to close the holes within.
You'll be told you'll find another. You'll be told to go, go and find happiness because all this is, is hurt, and nothing else. The problem is, your heart doesn't understand the complexities of bad timing or fear or settling for another because of low self-worth. You
SnowI have not been in love.
No one has taken
a box cutter to my heart
and stomped the blood into the carpet -
at least not the same person
who stitched me together
in the morning.
But I have loved
pixels and magazine clippings
and the satellites of kittens' ears.
I have loved tinkling bells.
The human voice
can make me float.
(drowned or free?)
I have loved
a snowglobe world
in which people are people
and there are no words
in any languages
next to the bar code.
The more I learn,
the more my mind opens -
like the rose trembling outward,
confused in the cold -
the more I worry
that I will never rid myself
Even (especially) of
the labels that don't
think they exist.
The more I fall in love
with objects and ideas
the more I realize that
doing the same to a human being -
would be just like
watching the snow
IowaIf you visit Iowa,
you'll call her fields empty,
but she wasn't born that way.
A part of her was carved out
when she was ripped between Virginia
and the purple mountains of New Mexico.
Her gold hair, she tore it out when she realized
it didn't make her a princess.
She laid her locks strung along every road
leading somewhere else.
White hairs on her cheeks
are scars from winter.
Her hair darkens with the dampness
of summer rains.
The storms are never silent,
but neither is life when there's a tear
in your childhood where
a parent ought to be.
I've been flooded by Iowa's sorrow.
The only way I can distract her from her own voided landscape
is if I hate myself harder than she cries.
She just wants to fly
and I want to bus or train,
not because I fear death, but because
I want to take living slow.
It's the only way I ever feel.
From the air it's hard to watch Earth's hips move.
But Earth can't compare to the country.
That's my girl.
Full grown even when harvesting season's j
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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