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the scars on your shouldersthe scars on your shoulders
are braille to me, so that i
can read your skin, so that i
can know you better.
i like to listen to your heartbeat
and how it resounds differently
from mine, just so beautifully
like two songs played in tandem
to harmonise in rounds;
i like to hold your hands
and rub your back
so that maybe my love
can find its way through your pores
and seep into your blood
(never can i find the right words
to tell you just the way you feel to me)
and to think that and how i nearly missed you
makes me miss you more
every minute and mile we spend
i can't sleep with another body
in my bed,
but sleeping without you
leaves the space next to me
much emptier than i'd like.
my only company is
the sadness that comes from
being alone, and having no strong arms
to reassure me that i am beautiful
and no dream can hurt me-
i can only hope that
you are not the exception.
this is the pen finally knowing
this is how we hold onto the bones
we support in our bodies.
christmas is not only in decemberyou sleep through so much sun
that it is the moon
who rises for you.
born in the russian springtime
with cyrillic letters on your tongue,
you are endless.
you are a ring,
curved to infinity
your hands belong in mine,
or else on my hips.
curve me into the shape
of an s,
narrow me in the centre
to give room to your arms-
they belong around me.
you are a gift;
when i fall asleep
on the opposite edge of the bed from you
and wake curled to your chest,
it is christmas every time.
on taking a breaki will continue to feel guilty
if i find a girl attractive
and i will continue to mourn
the loss of the freedom to explore
but if you want to see what sort of
storm i can become
by all means
break up with me
and see what
i swear-i am sad from wanting
but not from wanting you.
the winters worn away
and with the snow melted the brokenness
we were and i am not sorry for it.
i've stopped cussing beneath my breath,
been wearing more black
and if you so much as
cross the threshold
of my house
this isn't about you.
this is about the way you still manage
to pull at my heartstrings strung
across countries and continents,
the length of the world,
my soul tangled
how your hand still manages
to wrap around mine and i hear your voice,
thick with culture,
the stereotype supreme of irish catholic,
murmuring in my ear that it's all
right while you move my fingers
into my throat-
this is about how-
no matter how far you move (away)-
you will keep your grasp tight on me
and crush me if you can
just so you don't
no one listensthis is the part where you start listening.
i'm not one to pour my words,
cheap wine no glass just red solo cup,
into an empty room.
i'm not one to talk when everyone
only pretends they're listening when really,
they're just hearing.
the part you start listening
comes at the part where i show you my skin.
i could show you my heart all i want
but you won't hear me.
i could tell you about every moment
i've spent basking, drowning
in whatever endless emotion
and you would nod sympathetically.
but you still wouldn't listen.
not til i show you my skin
screenprinted and scattered in scars,
hatchmarking of blended bends
and tall and stretched.
or if i told you how i've left my body
in shambles, and left it, broken
and rained on like cardboard boxes on city streets
five years after my destruction proved inadequate
until someone else
with fracturing fingers
ruined me worse.
my bones splintered under the thin
stretch of skin
covering them until i grew thick limbs,
a trunk like a tree.
liari am good at lying.
look at my face.
see my teeth, lips
pulled from gums,
see my bracelets
sparkle when my eyes
don't look at my wrists
do not worry-
i am smiling
wide, just for you.
lovedrunkshe looks at me, all big doe eyes and cupid-bow lips, tells me, now i'm not trying to say i'm about to kill myself, but i'm about to kill myself.
the traffic light is glass. not that it's reflective, not that it's bright, but that it's so slow, a liquid, moving like a year. it's also what my blood has become with these words.
we're in my car but i'm scared. i know i'm the one behind the wheel, but i don't know what she's got in her purse. i don't know her name but i do know she's drunk. so am i. i know we shouldn't be driving but i couldn't leave such sad eyes at a bar. i guess, if i'm being entirely honest, i also couldn't leave such a beautiful body at a bar, either. especially if some guy with worse intentions than i couldn't pass her up.
talk to me, i say. i don't glance up from the road because i'm scared of what i'll see, and what i won't.
you're not my fucking therapist, she tells me. i know she's wearing red lipstick and i imagine it turns to venom with those words.
you call me an angelyou call me an angel
in spite of the bruises left on the fronts of my knees
stains of sin left on my skin;
the knots in my back,
you liken to the wings soon to burst from my shoulders
&tell me you can feel no sadness
when looking at my face-
eyes you analyse
into paints of the colour wheel,
several shades i have yet to see;
despite its crooked nature
thinning enamel from my sickness-
you still find me amongst the heavens.
as this once,
i kissed you to shut you up.
my skin is removing itself after my clothes
in the winter,
too unlike the white night of russian summers.
i kissed you &it was wet because i was crying
&every time our lips parted
another sob stuttered its way through the gap.
you heard what words i couldn't swallow,
the ones straining to pass over my tongue
yet drowned upon existence.
you listen to me until i lose my headstrong aim
to starve back to bones,
to see the angel wings i've lost in my skin
you touch &feel are there;
write what hurtsi'm here to tell you
about fire and living
& how both burn even if you ignore them
it's not about what feels good
it's about what doesn't
cornering what hurts
and exposing it
really displaying it
pedestal on high
for what it is
and not what it pretends to be
you are not living
until you hurt
you can't be alive
if all you know is comfort
comfort is only a sign
that you are doing what you know
it is admittance of limitation
because you are human
and only know so much
and it's agonising to think
that you can be comfortable with that
and not want to reach out
and touch every thing you find
and read every book you see
and hear every sound you can
because enough is never enough
is never enough is always
For you, no more.I have spent
most of my life holding my breath
above the waves,
just in case
they break me down
And I have spent
most of my life drowning in love
for hearts too full to home me,
propping myself up with cardboard
promises and sorry tarpaulins.
And I have spent
most of my life living for other
people; a doormat for woes and
loneliness; a spare body in their
bed at night.
I say no more.
Starving sleep and apologies.My sleep is starving.
It is shivering sweat like snow
across my shoulders as I sob scream
after scream against your skin;
"sorry, I'm so sorry,
go back to sleep."
I am sad
and struggling to stay
together but you slump
against my sickness
and hold me
what ifi forgot to put on
lipstick this morning,
i forgot to wear my rings.
i forgot to tell myself
i'm lovely this morning,
i forgot to put away my things.
i remembered to put on
the coffee this morning,
then recalled i'm not
the one who drinks it.
i remembered to shut the
door quietly this morning,
though there's no one
around that can hear it.
but i forgot to ask
where did you wake
i forgot to ask,
was i to blame?
i forgot to ask
if your dreams satisfied
or shattered you,
did you refrain
from touching my face?
if all this time,
if i was yours, if you were mine,
wouldn't i remember how to love you
wouldn't i remember how to say i'm sorry
the world, it turns.i am not the hero,
but you've made it very clear
that you cannot save yourself.
it is not cancer or even the drugs,
but the black recesses of your own mind
that is threatening your life now.
i wanted to water the garden,
planting beautiful memories
and trying to weed out the broken glass.
but the gate has locked
with me on the outside
and the yellow tulips of birthdays are choked out.
there is honesty in
if you're going down,
i'm going down with you.
you have not been alone a moment in your life
and war is waging in your head now,
but you cannot win if you do not fight.
i cannot kill the monsters
that exist only to you.
i cannot stay when you've asked me to leave.
part of me stays hoping
that when you sort you out,
you can be a part of me again.
but you intend to leave no more of you
to fill the darkness you left me,
and it makes me angry.
you are not yours alone to steal
and the night cannot claim you completely;
you are mine.
i cannot be your army
and i'm too far off to be you
Loneliness.I am too small for this house
full of your father's memory,
too small to quell the grief
that lines the walls and fills
the gaps between the
And you have left me here
to settle in amongst the weight
kindreddancing drunk in the kitchen
toes twirling over tile, hips
swinging like voodoo, midnight
tables for the booze and groove
two songs in and
the way we're moving our arms,
we're swatting all the trouble
out of the air like fruit flies.
we're leaders of the night.
we're masters of disguise.
see, no one here could
tell that outside of
our most brilliant
moments we are
often most broken.
we are loud, and obnoxious
and too crass and too godless,
but i'm mad and you're brilliant
i'm tough and you're insistent.
we're a blonde mess of wreckage
with gold spirits and a
knack for rhythm.
Anger.Your voice drops
and shatters on the floor
like the stack of plates
I couldn't hold onto
You left the room
and I was still standing in it,
shards of anger and porcelain buried in
the carpet and my skin.
NaPoWriMo: Day 2sometimes,
i have this
sudden urge to cut
most of the time,
i just wish I were anything
other than me.
a rocket ship, a bird-
the sweet flavored smoke
I promised my girlfriend
these briar patch lungs
would not in.hale.
i have fallen in love
with the strangest of things-
eyes that intimidate
the way my scars
play hide and seek
with her hands. -
the love letters
that start and end
pressed against limbs.
i make promises
i know i can not keep.
but if i were a liar
i would say i was tired
of writing to the stars.
I didn't hear what he replied when she askedLast night, while cultivating a high,
watching others laugh with their mouths pried
drinking from the first cup I was handed
to avoid conversation,
I saw a man whom I would not dream to love
but drew me tight with an aloof smile; he was
so suddenly there
that I thought I'd imagined his appearance
until someone was on his arm,
asking his name.
Our reflections were side by side
in the mirror on the far wall of the dark bedroom,
surrounded by tea lights and skin flickering
in warm shades of brandy and honey;
I recorded the angle of his jaw,
the shadows that carved his cheekbones,
and the easy way his lips wrapped around words
that were never eloquent
but always the right thing to say.
He was distant
but alluring; he did not draw a crowd with broad gestures
but with a voice like a beacon at sea,
providing direction to drifting sailors who wanted
a story, maybe a moment
in the orange eyes of someone whom they knew
though no one could place a finger on why
a.i know she uses toothpaste
to whiten her teeth
but that's not the reason
her smile is so bright
she's got everything painted blue
with either morrissey
playing in the background
but not loud enough for you to hear the words
unless she sings them herself,
& it's much prettier that way.
i like the feeling i get
when i pull her hips
& when our chests mesh,
the way our breathing picks up
like a band when the singer
begins a new song.
we aren't anything apart
but when the lights dim
and our glasses fill,
i swear you can hear a hum
and the pluck of a guitar
searching for its harmony.
Un roti de Cupidon"Patron.. je suis pas sûr que ça soit une si bonne idée..."
Un bruissement d'ailes presque froufroutant sur sa gauche le fit se retourner d'un bond, mais il ne put percevoir qu'un bref mouvement du coin de l'oeil. Ils étaient rapides, bien trop rapides. Jamais le vieux ne réussirait. De nouveau ce bruit soyeux, semblable à des ailes de tourterelles, mais bien plus proche. Dans son esprit il pouvait les voir, tournant au dessus de sa tête comme autant de vautours prêts à la curée.
Le bruit assourdi des détonations résonna et tout autour d'Emmanuel une pluie de plumes commença à virevolter tandis que cinq bruits sourds accompagnaient la chute d'autant de corps autour de lui.
"Ramasse les, petit. On a encore du boulot."
Avec une grimace mi admirative, mi dégoûtée, le jeune homme se mit au travail, enfilant des lourds gants de cuir pour se protéger. Son sup
You're Not A PoetYou’re not a poet because of strung words
Together on row upon row again
Of blank verse or perhaps liberal rhyme.
‘Slam’ all you want, other poets wonder;
Your ignorance of couplets a blunder?
Yes! I speak harshly, but it’s no gross crime,
To point with honesty failed verse of thine.
No real poet discards upper case words;
Lets prose crawl on paper like listless worms.
You seek to free verse of those stern letters,
Sever away bleak capital fetters,
But it doesn’t sing of great speech sublime,
Rather, it sneaks of writing in spare time.
Wait! before you throw me in the icy Rhine;
It’s hard to put verse together in rhyme,
To make our dull words sound great all the time,
Hear them ring out loud, like a clear clock’s chime,
Heralding a poet’s summer prime.
Yet the sacred muses weep at your crime;
Your pentameter mangled thick like slime,
The subject not gilded in raiment fine;
Your bold ink font, crystal waters divine
Tastes bitter to the ton
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Lilyas has dedicated herself to making our community a brighter place with her vibrant artwork and infectious enthusiasm for interacting with others in our community. It has certainly paid off, as many deviants flock to her page on a daily basis to let her know how much of an inspiration she is. We absolutely agree, and couldn't let all that hard work go without recognition, so it's with great pride that we bestow the Deviousness Award for March 2014, to ... Read More