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if my body could talkit's probably not a good thing
when what you want to say
to your ex boyfriend
is the same
as what your body
wants to say to you:
i don't know why
i still insist on you
when you want
nothing to do with
you don't care for me
the way you did
i wish everyday
you are ruining me;
i don't know how to
deal with what you're
putting me through;
why can't you love me;
everything you do
and i know it shouldn't
but everything that matters
shouldn't, i guess.
what i think i mean
is i need you
to give me my soul back-
i am killing this flesh
a letter to ethanyou're fifteen minutes away.
that's a quarter of an hour, that's ten miles, that's space enough that i never have to see you again.
but still i feel my heart beating like a rabbit's foot against my rib.
i'm a girl still in denial
of being a woman with
breasts and hips and a womb.
i'm a child with my heart and i will surrender it foolishly
to the first boy to give me roses and push them into my hair.
i don't know how to love,
the way i don't know how how to stop.
but let me tell you this- it happens.
they both do.
i loved your fragile brown eyes like i'd never seen a warmer fire.
i sank my bones like an anchor to your earthly vessel and called it home.
i staggered home drunk every weekend we were together
by word only.
and i felt myself falling apart when i sighed
with sleepy repetition as we exhausted the same jokes as ever,
just a million miles different.
my mind drifted but i loved you.
the feathered finches in my chest were beat
sandstormthere is sand in my teeth
from days i don't remember;
hot-sun deserts singeing
the hairs on the back of my neck,
feet back from burns:
i know what it's like
playing with fire.
i know how to perch
like birds on my thin toes
along a wire,
i know the electricity
coursing through the rubber,
a centimetre from death:
i have yet to fall.
on precarious precipices,
i am wondering if my wings still work,
or if i've purged them out;
if they've atrophied from my back,
or filled with bile.
the sand shifts
and i am looking at bone.
a skeleton, full and articulate.
the desert has charred him black;
his skin has burned away.
in his teeth
he will never remember.
when the eastern sun sinksi wonder if you would
change your mind
find it in your
to feel a little something
if you saw the words
you've pulled from
uncovered by your lips,
i find poems under my hands.
i write strophes and lines
imprinted on your skin
when i move my fingers away.
i have so much to
i could give you so much
but you slink like a
nightcrawler from light
to a comfortable recession,
we will talk again
and no stammered heart
will beat like birds
if our hands touch;
you will realise
that sooner than you have,
you could have
shared your self
with someone else
and been safe-
you would have been
an hour i can never get backthe light overhead
fluorescent like that
in a train station-
millions of miles
held in the same breath
beneath the same roof-
flutter in rolling hills
sometimes like the moon
and sometimes like the sun.
it is like the day and night
of you that i see-
the day, so many more miles
like that train station,
than the complete lack of space
and utter abeyance of distance
we would find at night.
i fear that,
your absent heart
will become ugly to me;
simply your fear
will turn my hurt to flame.
it is already too much
to flicker from rose to dessication
in the matter of times
the secondhand twitches.
all i ask is for
honesty, as exposed as
tree roots to the desert sandstorms.
i promise peace, ease,
and the everlong relief
that i will be quiet
for you once more.
life without youi watched you,
battered and floral
suitcase in hand,
as your knotted tree-branch fingers
grip the doorhandle.
i watched you
before the door swung
i saw your thin skin
slip between pavement
and cracks in the concrete
your keys sunk through
the hole in your pocket
and are sitting at the
side of the sink,
your lunch in the bowels
of the toilet.
i watched your mouth
of broken teeth
spit vitriol soundlessly,
your tendons splitting
from your frame,
you have unravelled into nothing,
i watched you
pack your things and
wasting usi want you, ok
i want you to be on your knees
all scraped and red and raw
like you're a child again
because that's all you ever
i want you to be aching
the way i've been aching
since the last rays of summer
said goodbye to us,
goodbye to us
and i want you to never forget
that just because
you don't remember my birthday,
that doesn't mean
forget the feel of my skin
for the first time
and that someday
this memory will stop hurting.
it never will,
and i promise you this:
every time it crosses your mind-
while you wait at the bus stop,
during a chemistry exam,
the next time a girl touches you
with her heart and not just her fingers-
every time it crosses your mind,
you're going to remember me
in extraordinary detail
and see me
like the extraordinary person
that i am,
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
presumptionsi know i'm a very common-,
i look like i floss my teeth
at least once a week
and have never worn
like i devour books like candy
and never talked during class.
it's funny when people are nothing like how they look.
so let me tell you something,
let me set you straight:
i'd have you believe
i'm not some heavily medicated girl
with snakes up and down her body
in bright red rows, all raw and scabbed and
constant, ceaseless, neverending reminders of fucked-up and failure...
but it never took much for you to talk me into bed.
letting you think i'm some perfect porcelain figurine
without cracks all up my spine is about as ok as forging your mom's signature;
meaning it's alright as long as it's nothing serious.
and maybe that's the problem.
playing hopscotch cross-continent all summer and
making a patchwork quilt out of our travels when the cold sets in
is a pretty serious stab at giving us another go.
i can deal with touch, i just might shudder
Van GoghOf love,
these thing I know
it is the grace of being born
over and over again
in your arms,
They are the same shade
of sorrow as the painter's
absencesbut this isn't just distance
as in space, not just distance as in
"i can't believe how far you
are from me, i miss you" -
this isn't just distance
in the way
that roads seem to spill over
hilltops for years,
stretching like skin across knuckles
but never ending,
this is the kind of distance
that isn't seen but instead felt,
that isn't marked by miles
or gas money and can't be pinned in two
spots on a map with red thumbtacks:
this is not hearing from you
and knowing you haven't noticed.
this is wanting to have you
and knowing you're just fine
this is the kind of distance
that knows broken bridges, that hurts
because it feels
like it can't be mended, and because
holding.you are lovely. even when you're not
which is most of the time.
you don't speak often.
and yet, i hold on like a
suicide jumper hanging on for a saviour
for a sign that maybe things don't have to end like this.
give me a reason not to jump.
you speak softly, rarely
and i swear, i still wear yellow to catch your attention,
i still put a traffic cone on my head
in hopes that you'll divert, stop, take notice of the road.
please don't swerve me aside.
if you could open me up like you open their legs
if you could open your eyes to me
i promise, i could be more.
i could be more than this girl who is standing in front of you
pretending that she wants nothing more than to be your friend
pretending that she wants nothing more than to laugh with you
when really, all she wants is to make you smile.
all i want is to make you smile
and when we are listening to the beatles and smoking ourselves into other worlds, i am holding my tongue, holding my breath,
we're never what we think.at least twice a day, i find myself wishing i was less.
less of a worrier.
less of a lover.
less of a mess.
all of this would be so much better, if the disconnect between
what i want and what i have would close because then things
would be simple for the first time in years. and i could inhale
without wondering what kind of consequences it will have five
minutes from now. you can only imagine what really goes
through my mind in the time it'll take you to breathe in and
out. now hold it. like i've been holding this thought for months
the girl i was is quickly vanishing.
i've been holding it like a secret on the tip of my tongue afraid of
what the outcome will mean for me but saying it out loud doesn't
dilute the impact it's having on my insides or the way i've been
closing my eyes and trying to pretend it's not true for the better
half of a year because if there is ever one thing that you don't
want to lose it's yourself. but still, i woke up this morning
the physics of love."matter can't be created
or destroyed," he says softly. "it just
is what it is, forever."
the truth is you’re
going to wake up empty
and people will ask,
(People always ask like it’s their goddamn business,
and you’re going to try
to pretend that nothing has changed,
you’re the same girl you were
yesterday, you promise,
and you’re trying
to smile, and they’re
trying to smile too,
but you’re not convincing
anyone of anything.
this isn't progress, because you're irreversible.You were never meant for me.
I knew it in the most obvious manner. It was in the way you had a subtle sort of comfort in your own skin a quiet and humble confidence while I struggled to make sense of the prints on my fingertips and the way one of my eyes crinkled in the corner more than the other when I smiled. You felt safe with yourself while I was always warring with my own reflection. Half the time, I didn't know who I was. A quarter of the time, I still don't. You would call this progress if you were here to see, but I just call it sad.
When you miss something for long enough, you start to forget the exact way that things happened. Or the exact way they happened to fall apart. For instance, I don't remember the first time you didn't call, but I do remember when you told me you loved me but not enough. It's never enough, is it? The point is you were gone before I could even say goodbye. You were gone before you were ever really here, but somehow I let myself bu
Pretty Lost Birdiepretty, lost birdie
sitting on your
you are skin
just don't fit
of "why can't
but the only thing
that ever leaves
as you whither
90.it was always a god damned contest with you.
my bones were charcoal grey and too heavy
well yours were pitch fucking black and unbearably so
i couldn't breathe when someone said that one name
you literally did stop breathing.
i hit you.
you stayed still.
the white traveled even faster
than your hands did
to shove the bloody things
down your fucking throat.
and i blamed myself
and i hate you for that
you unbelievable bastard.
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