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resentment like autumnyou're ok with feeling that resentment,
that roiling, needling resentment,
until you realise it's directed toward yourself.

that's when you fall apart.

that's when you realise that everything
could be coming up roses,
balloons in the sky
rising like cliches from the earth,
but you,
who me? little old me? yes, little old you,
you tore down your own joy,

and that's when it overwhelms you
like a forest fire.

you've wasted away your chance,
that innate sense of satisfaction,
to simply could-have-been bones;

no longer can it be yours,
that beautiful uncertainty
of two hearts skirting on edge
to meet, at last
and realise
this

will we ever be again?all i know is how i feel
and all i know is i feel dead.
make of it what you will.

what i need you to understand
is that every time i say to myself,
i love you,
i also say,
it doesn't matter.

i told you before you left
how i loved you,
and how angry i was
when i figured it out.

it seems denial can only get you so far.

so here's the thing:
i have a habit
of trying to rescue
what can't be saved.

i try on moods like clothing,
undergarments of repulsion,
denial, and depression
tattooed on my skin.

here's the thing:
the world is on fire
and i plan to burn down
with it.

i don't believe in suicide
but i do believe in reckles

the renewal of purgingi am sick.
i am curled around the toilet
like a cat in sunlight,
cradling it like my one and only,
cheek rested on the sill,
a makeshift window;
it is a terrible thought.

the bowl is a vignetted glimpse
into my body,
almost pure art
in its portrayal,
unabstracted,
of my insides.
that is what it is:
my insides.

it is a photograph
of my feelings.
i know this makes me sick
but i imagine i am a bird, still
neither locked by air nor earth,
and i feel a little
lighter.

the lines on my skin, however,
insist that i am human.
i am afraid that they will
glow
in the aftermath of friday,
so i pretend a little more,
a little mo

renewalyou are small,
yet unchanged
an infant
in stature;
in heart,
an empire.

please,
if you can,
love me;
i am white washed on the shores,
the grains of sand clinging
to your skin until it glitters.

i will start fires,
if it means something to you;
i will scrub my hands
if my blood is your currency.

i have folded under the bends
of your effort,
your being pressing into me
just by the weight i feel
in my heart.

to hear your voice
is to hear a melody
i knew i could never know again,
that i had sworn to forget;
yet upon hearing it,
felt my body swell with its notes
and burst with memory.

you are still one thousand miles

medical dust, medical wastei am made of medical dust,
small picks, and combs
left to catch
the open sores
of a tired man
roaming the shores,
to make him my own.

i never meant
to bring you below.
you were always
a boat, ebbing and flowing
a thousand metres
from the ground
stretch far
from you, and far
beneath.

it was only as real
as a papercut,
flooded with the salt
of our ocean,
from the mason jars
filled with the night
we touched under the gaze
of a blanket of smoke and stars.

bulldozeri am a poet -
or at least,
i was.

(i am lying.)

i tell myself
i have never wanted anything
more than you,
but i have:

i have loved with my whole heart,
every inch of my body,
every ounce of my soul;

i have taken time and care
with my eraser,
rubbing out the distance
between where my heart lives
and where my body lies in unrest.

i actually let myself believe you
for a couple of seconds,
did you know that?
i felt like you loved me.

i didn't want to get up
and i didn't want to move out of the rain,
i just wanted to sit in your car
in these clothes
forever
because that night was the last time i'll see you.

two days later

great peace and beautyi stretch with the branches
overhead, so that i might
grow, so that i might
blossom into something
more beautiful, something
more worthwhile, something
infinitely more than myself.

there is a lot of ugliness
involved in love, and we
shield our eyes to it like
it's the blinding sun,
that blinding truth.

please listen when i say
that the air is too thin
to fill us. please listen
when i say that i can now
understand "too thin." i
want you to hear me tell
you i want to get better,
and i want you to stay
around. i am so afraid
that my body won't, but
even more when i realise
your fingers have become
memories like sound, jus

lovesick girl's hearti'm starting to feel
the intensity of the silence
linger on my back again,
your fingers, my spine.
it scares me,
how heavy a hand
can be on a body.

for this,
i pretend we are both windows,
open to the world,
yet still a layer of glass
to keep ourselves safe,
or really, each other.

it would be wrong
for me to say
i don't worry every night,
before i fight for
a few hours' sleep-
the only thing
i can never believe in-
that no matter how much
better
i become,
better will never mean best
for you.

i am malleable like clay,
the dirt and water
i find in my hands
after i extract them,
like hands full of golden teeth,
fro

thesisi feel awful in a way.

here, let me tell you about this-
i have a boy who is like
a needle on thread,
strung on me
like a clothesline;

he is tireless
and shelled,
hidden within his
carapace,
unyielding;

a different body
whistling from down
the hallway,
shedding my skin
as he mends
his own;

and another,
a paper bird
with handwriting
like shards of glass
and a soul
like a tree,
warm roots growing
into the streets.

i have my own heart
buried halfway between
the mountains and georgia,
the only state
where even atheists
can believe
in god-

but georgia
is not enough,
and finally,
i can see that
neither are you.

schadenfreudei found love
in your bone structure,
troublingly beautiful
with your soul worn across your lips.

you remind me of the sunshine
i lost in the circles
i left behind
to find someone an ocean
less far.

instead,
i am here,
watching the birds take flight
from the edges of your mouth,
watching their wings curl
with every word
strained with an accent
owned by my ancestors
born on ships.

i want you to tell me again
about the times
you found a purity in his eyes,
the blank skin upon which
they were set like jewels
and those when
you grinned cheekily
when i told you how
terribly beautiful
you really were.

i find myself wis

let it go before you messso i was just sitting here
in a room of four people
and breathing like the cold air
filling the walls
would somehow make us happy,

and pretending that music
wasn't sort of like
sucking venom from a wound --
in other words,
fucking useless.

so i was just thinking
how music never really healed
a hole in my heart for me,
how really all it did
was make me think,

and at best,
it made me think about things
that hurt a little less
than what i was avoiding so hard.

i was done with looking at myself
so analytically as i pressed
my features into graphite
on a too-large paper,

and i was done reading baudelaire
as he wrote of l

the day the sun never rosewhat do you do
when your eyes are already
opened
and still,
imprinted on your eyelids
are scenes and thoughts
and typographical imagery
that are thick
like blood,
and enough
to drive you to madness?

i keep your secrets
and even though
my heart still breaks,
my ongoing refusal
to think of you poorly
does not.

at this hour,
you still have me
kept in the dark,
with a longing in the cellar of my stomach;
it never does leave,
does it?

i wait with
bated breath
and rose flavoured tea
clutched like a crux
in my hand
for the intimation
that maybe,
one day,
you can love me
again.

i miss the complete envelopment
of my b

nonfiction love songi am eaten by the sun
holes worn in my clothes
from the radiation,
burning a hole
in my stomach
as harsh as the acid
ebbing and flowing,
oceanic,
around the isles
of my teeth.

like an old sweater,
i am unravelling by my threads;
caterpillars breaking
through cocoons,
never metamorphosing
into the butterflies
they could have been,
the very same
as you and me.

now that i have put you
inside of this jar,
chrysalis sticking fragile
to the copper lid,
you have become
someone i could love.

i hold you like a lamb,
tight to my chest
so that my air
is your air,
and our breaths hit
the same measures.
we are synchronising

his mother in readingit might've been the weight
she gained in her
hips and stomach
while bearing
her only child,
or the heft of responsibility
brought on by jobs and bills
and eviction notices,
but she wasn't beautiful
anymore.

some key element
left her skin empty
and let it sag
and slump like her shoulders.
she looked like wet laundry
hung like papier mache
streamers dragged down
by a cold summer rain.

it choked the life out of her
i can see it in her eyes
in her face
she just sits in front of the television
she doesn't feel love anymore-

telling a story that has no end,
breaking her heart just to feel again-
there is a big nothing
wh

first datei wanted to hold your hand, but i sat on mine instead.

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More from *ohsostarryeyed

the end, actuallylassitude builds
nests in my bones
flightless birds
forming words
as effective at becoming airborne
as the words "i'm sorry"
and sometimes
they just refused to try

the most prominent thought
circling my head
like the words that could soar
was knowledge-
there is a big chance
we will not make it through the night,
that i will never be held
captive
in the cage of your eyes
and trapped by a heart

i must be committing
some atrocities
but i do not know which ones-
there just might be
a limit
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 throug

constellations are just bodiesyou left me in my bed-
i was crying-
when you walked down my stairs
for the last time.

you were to spend the night-
you lived hours away-
until you told me
you couldn't do this
anymore.

i was fine-
you were just a constellation-
until your words
forced images of my last love
before my mind's eye.

i cried before you-
i hadn't cried in months-
but i didn't cry for you.

in retrospect, as you closed my door-
it was the last time-
my only thought is
why didn't we fuck
before saying goodbye?

if people didn't filter their emotions and justthrowing yourself on
floors doesn't fix anything,
but it sure seems to.

the vomiting crowd of coney islandthe destructive walls are shaded
in grey and i am remembering
every feeling i have forgotten-

i am terrified.

this is a city that never sleeps,
the bones of my chest thrumming
like taxi cabs in the streets,
my fingers shaking
in want for comfort and solace
and love.

i am not standing
in lorca's vomiting crowd-
i am his vomiting crowd,
looking high and low
and between my clenched fists
for catharsis and purification,
for the reason of this illness
pressed against my skin,
for the indefinable sickness
i drown in like bubbles of spit
day in and day out.

i fear the restraints
i've placed for myself,
that they may not be the

a letter of hatred, to myselfdear child,
dear little girl,
dear melissa,
dear sweet, innocent, beautiful melissa,

there is none of this that you would choose for yourself; there is none of this that you would see coming. a beautiful infant, born bright yellow like your favourite dress when you were three, you were perfect. you wore jaundice like a mink stole, blocked tear ducts like cat-eyed glasses. you cried because you were unafraid to show others how you felt: you were not scared to let them care.

strangers paused your parents on the street to peer inside of your stroller, marvelling at the porcelain doll within; the big blue eyes, reflecting the sky in grand

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bulletproof

by *ohsostarryeyed, Oct 31, 2011, 9:55:34 PM
Scraps

spiders stitch me a softer melody
as they knit back up my veins;
i feel their gossamer threads
sink into my vessels,
small ships in my blood
as they set out for sea.

i do not know which home
is now meant for me.
i am a back to the door,
spine burrowing
into woodwork
so that i do not fall,
unseeing,
into anything endless.

lying about in the dark,
we are new blooms;
humans like flowers
as we find our new roots
in new soil
and hope to find love.

the comfort of lavender
transcends sleep.

city air like projections,
silhouettes sketched
on the world's white walls,
it billows under my skirts
and i feel that, now,
i can
fly.

19 Comments

bulletproofby *ohsostarryeyed

©2011-2013 *ohsostarryeyed

featured!
[link]

this time baby i'll be bulletproof

FOR THE RECORD
I DON'T LIKE THAT SONG
IT REMINDS ME OF MY COUSIN'S FIANCE
MOCKING IT WILDLY
AND I HEARD IT TODAY
AND IT WAS IN MY HEAD

~~joy 0 0~~

~~wow 0 0~~

~~mad 0 0~~

~~sad 0 0~~

~~fear 0 0~~

~~neutral 0 0~~

`Kneeling-Glory Feb 3, 2012 Hobbyist Writer

Someone believed you deserve a DD! Your work has been featured here as a result!

Reply

*ohsostarryeyed Feb 4, 2012

oh dear lord, thank you so much!

Reply

~Iceblueeyedgirl Dec 3, 2011 Hobbyist Writer

<33 <33

Reply

~IIIXII Nov 3, 2011

city air like projections,
silhouettes sketched
on the world's white walls,

Damn ..

Reply

~collarbonechild Nov 2, 2011 Hobbyist Writer

oh wow, lovely flow in this

Reply

*ohsostarryeyed Dec 8, 2011

thank you so much!

Reply

~YourBuddyBill Nov 2, 2011 Hobbyist General Artist

Is this about your life? It sounds like you need some support.
"Save the world. Keep it whole. Save the people. Save the soul." -me

Reply

~CrackABone Oct 31, 2011 Hobbyist Traditional Artist

you are mocking a song. i don't mind, i still like this

you write so prettily. when i am free from school obligations i would love to illustrate some of your works, if you would allow it?

Reply

*ohsostarryeyed Nov 1, 2011

i only mock the song in the title :3

thank you so much! i would love if you would do so, as long as i can see

Reply

~CrackABone Nov 1, 2011 Hobbyist Traditional Artist

'kay thanks . i will upload them to deviantart

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