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the best way to remember somethingi cry
every time you write me a letter-
in all my damaged glory,
still loved across miles of river and fields.
you are unyielding and unforgetting,
finding the words we never had
there are many moonlit stories
to recount and to expound upon in
i've got a burn on the toe of my shoe
from getting too near the fire with you-
the bruises on your skin
lasted for days;
the headband your sister gave me
and the way i cried
when it broke;
climbing up stairs, skewed like piano keys
in the winter air,
and entering your house, where you told me
to tug on my sleeve
because my battle wounds were exposed;
your dog curling up on your bed
to keep me company,
the way i was welcomed in your house,
getting drunk on vodka on new year's,
the first time you made me cum,
finding ourselves at a party
on the porch where we met-
i am amazed, astounded, awed.
you can love me even though my ear piercings are crooked,
a broken smile on my teeth
for every time you ran away, afraid;
the tidiest white bedthe tidiest white bed means nothing
under flower sheets covering grandmother's hand-sewn quilt
and power rangers blankets-
this is waking up in sunshine and warm skin;
clean sheets and dirty nights;
love and peace and holding hands before sleep ends
for the subconscious fear of losing the other.
breathe deepbreathe deep.
breathe it shallowly if you need to,
if filling your lungs to bursting
is too much,
but breathe the depth-
of tree roots
and ethnic roots
and the roots planted by love.
and the orgiastic fullness
it gives the empty shell
you try so hard to stuff
but nothing sticks;
because deep is star-soaked
desperate with creeping beauty
like attar and trellis
and the june moon.
this is how you keep her.
this is how you say,
this is our permanent address.
this is how you say i love you
with something more than words.
the destruction of destructioni leave
&empty watter bottles
on your floor
in case you decide to forget me.
this is just our dynamic
this is just how our relationship works.
i read you chapters of the
strangest book i know
&you have me create
voices for each character.
i am most comfortable as the narrator,
but you like my crazier caricatures best.
it reminds me of how you like
the stranger ways my mind works,
&how you will pry sharp things
from my clawed fingers
&show up late for work
just to make sure i eat;
the hateful frustration i feel
when my body yearns for its
only to be thwarted by something
it can't control;
it reminds me of how you love
the parts of me i most hate,
&the way we can fight
as we go to bed
but before i fall asleep,
i nestle myself into
the curve of your back
&i am safe.
a hunger artistthe next time it happens,
maybe i won't be there.
i could have sold my soul
to the circus,
to starve myself
til my dying breath,
as it should be.
perhaps i will unravel,
skin like streamers
up to the bends of my elbows,
before you realise that, maybe,
you can feel the electrical discharge
from my broken circuits,
and that that is enough.
or better yet,
i will learn to love
while you're stuck
in your own crog,
muck and mire
piled to a level
just below the lips
i used to kiss
and keep safe
inside my memory.
but mostly, oh
i will never leave you,
i will never leave.
i am not faithful
but i'll stay
and someday, you
will find it in your heart
to love me.
a letter of hatred, to myselfdear child,
dear little girl,
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 grandeur and wonder; the rosy cheeks that meant you were healthy. you were beautiful, and as awareness became more than an abstraction, you knew it.
hours were spent in the mirror and every reflective surface that came across your path. dearest melissa, you were a brilliant star to behold.
go to sleep for the love of godi kind of feel like ripping my face off.
it's not one of those sad, suicidal stories. i mean, if i believed in suicide in the way that means i could do it, then yeah, it would be. but i don't, and i guess you're kind of lucky for that because now you can go to sleep with a clear conscience.
i won't ever tell you about how many pages and books and scraps of paper and unsent text messages and notes on the backs of my hands i've written for you, or how inarticulate you were when you wanted to say how you felt. i won't ever tell you how i wished for a few words that could tell me that i was loved, even a little, and i sure as fuck won't ever say that when you managed to pull a few words together for some girl you haven't even touched, well, i won't ever say that all i feel like doing now is unravelling the skin on my arms, down to the bones, and watch as rivers of red fall out of me like stars.
maybe i'd be beautiful enough for you then. i
adulthoodwhen you interact with other grown-ups,
there are things you need to remember.
i am learning the fine art of Adult Small Talk-
banter for banter's sake and smiles and short, impersonal anecdotes
because you can't risk letting anyone in,
god forbid someone actually gets close.
you keep your friends in your stomach and swallow them at night to keep them close
and put your cheery face on for medical professionals even when your throat is too swollen
to drink down those friends.
those friends, you know they'll never let you down.
you see your human companions on lunch breaks and weekend days.
at night, young adults have sex and fall asleep together;
at night, older adults complain of headaches and sleep on opposite sides of the bed.
your human friends don't make you feel as good
as your other friends make you feel.
they ask about your life and how you're doing,
ask if you're still in therapy and if you're eating,
and god forbid you let them in.
they're your human friends but they don't get
Love, before I met you.1) I was a blank canvas
for their hands to paint endearments
and childhood secrets on.
(The bruises came later,
but bruises don't talk and neither
2) A slammed door,
a raised fist and bloodied teeth and
how did we end up here, babe?
How did we fall so heavily out of love?
3) A knife,
they'd twist it in my gut
and hang my love-gutted corpse
out to wait for the next
poor soul to find me.
Tattooed in My Tear DuctsI don’t know any big words
and I don’t drink tea and I haven’t read
all the classics and my hair is a startling
shade of ash blonde, if you’re being
generous. I would call it grey. I will not
impress you. And maybe that’s impressive
enough. You will always get an honest
reaction from me.
My mother drinks tea though,
earl grey, and chai and chamomile,
she thinks it will heal her, make her
sleep. But sleep and healing are not
the same things.
I have run from monsters
to find them in my sleep, and by run
I mean get high, and by monsters,
I mean me. If sleep is a mirror
we are all doomed. I’ve seen myself,
eyes red and raccooned, reaching
for some comfort and I had to explain
that my lips swell when I cry. All I wanted
was for you to say that I look pretty when
I have come to realize two things:
one, that everything I want is not good for me and
two, I am not the worst things I ever did.
I am not the worst things I ever did.
I want this tattooed i
Honestly dishonest.I'd kissed you seventeen times before they tore me
away from the coffin.
This could be tragically romantic but I'm lying;
I wasn't allowed through the chapel doors.
this is the distinct linemy subconscious hates me.
maybe even more than i
hate myself right now.
impossible, i know, but
i dreamed about you last night
for the first time in a long time.
you called me. your voice still
makes my heart do enough flips
and tumbles to make me sick.
not in a bad way though. never
in a bad way. but in any case,
you called and you weren't
angry. we weren't awkward.
we just were.
i smiled and it wasn't fake.
i dreamed that you could still love
me or that you still did.
one of the two. i can't remember.
either way, i felt whole again.
that's a feeling i thought i'd
forgotten. i should forget it.
i could still speak without
worrying what people would say
to me. distinct sympathy in
their eyes even when i swear
i'm okay. in my dream, i
promise i wasn't lying.
i was on a plane. the sunlight
hurt my eyes. but i was flying.
i dreamed i was a bird. it didn't
hurt until morning when i woke
up and felt like i had fallen.
my whole world in pieces because
i'm not really a bird witho
magic doesn't die.I've lived where the ghosts sleep.
The streetlights are broken but they still stand,
arching over empty alleys filled only with dead cats.
Stardust is littered over the river,
drifting on the black water almost like moon beams.
You asked if I knew where I was going.
I told you, this was my home.
Once, I ate the lies of children, the dreams of dying leaves
and the stones that words have become
along with the ghosts of the town.
This torchlight might let us see the dirt on the ground,
but it will never detect their movements.
I know them.
They are quiet, almost silent.
They will never speak but they can scream.
They will scream you all the way into Sunday,
right past Wednesday and Friday,
the days they'd lost their bodies.
And watch your step.
If that board creaks, stories underneath it will haunt you.
Those stories are not fantasies. They are not pretty.
Between the cracks of moon light, I know their eyes are on us.
I know their feet are following our shadows.
I've made my bed where the
Sanguivorous.Teeth in my
skin, the junctions of
my elbows and thighs
have become your playground
and I fall apart beneath
charlestownthere are days where everything-
reminds me of charlestown
i jump to correct those
who are talking about south carolina
when i remember they're talking
but i can't flush out the feeling
that they're wrong,
or when there are no dropped r's
hitting the floor beneath them
there are days that nothing
but green eyes or gapped teeth
hold interest for me,
and nights where i feel myself
and i dream of you,
and you stand before me
in your newly-shaven hair
and dark-framed glasses,
and i can only feel
the most overwhelming sense
it is nights like those
that terrify me
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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