deviant art

Deviant Login
Buy ArtBuy T-Shirts & Gear Buy adCast Buy Premium Membership
Shop		  Join deviantART for FREE Take the Tour
[x]
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.

look.

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
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.

precarious placements
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
an open letter to a rekindled relationshipwe have travelled thousands of miles;
we have felt spite and fear for diminished feelings;
we have played this game for far too long.

last night we missed hearing others' poetry
to make our own.
i was not afraid of skin,
and you were not afraid to feel.
we were born with instinct for a reason:
follow it.

realising what you want is half the battle.
my other half is hesitation-
my other half is you.

i still swell with emotions my therapist
can't help me label
when i remember how you said
you weren't over me.
and how we joined again,
with an interim year,
and a new understanding of emotion
adding to and balancing the physical.
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
me;

you don't care for me
the way you did
before;

i wish everyday
that things
would change;

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
hurts me
and i know it shouldn't
matter
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
without it.
you arei want a city ruined
every time you love me.
i want to show how loudly i shake,
enough to break
faults and how it will never be yours,
and bring down skylines
when you aren't here.

there are seven weeks until my blood runs blank,
but it is so full tonight
it could drown a man.
i hope it drowns you,
the way it carries the only beautiful thing about me
to you;
my heart, my love.

it's time you pull together
your telephone wires and breathe stars
back into my body-
it was so dark without you.
there was no moon,
just the kind of black
you know could be no emptier.

i am effulgent again
with the ways i've needed to feel,
i am
100 sunday crosswordsthis is a story of broken pieces
letting go feature by feature;
shattered pieces, ice rain,
and something blacker than sadness
turning from snowfall to knives
and the scarlet ground that follows.

this is about knowing when to stop
but never knowing the time.

because fingers snap louder in the cold,
they shiver and shake, shiver and shake
until the tremours turn to bone
and you feel it when they break.
a century's warning isn't enough to prepare for an earthquake;
a thousand years is still a blink when the last sinews
split.

there is nothing welcome about the open air
and how it bites your exposed skin,
its teeth sharpen and g
between two months is two shorti like to think of you.
sometimes you are a butterfly,
wings stretched back
in long arcs,
bones breaking into flight
behind your protruding chest-
you are beautiful.

i find myself sinking
into the irish kills in your eyes,
the gaps in your smile.
i touch the cauterised cuts
sealed by metal and fire
on the backs of your swollen knuckles
and kiss your crooked lips.

in two months you will leave.
in the wake of st. valentine's sacrifice,
i will send my heart to war with you.
look beneath your pillow
and find it there;
look in the space between your walls
and there it will be;
look within your chest, beside your own heart
and
when the eastern sun sinksi wonder if you would
change your mind
(change yourself,
find it in your
heart
to feel a little something
for me)
if you saw the words
you've pulled from
my mouth;

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
show you,
i could give you so much
to feel,
but you slink like a
nightcrawler from light
to a comfortable recession,
and there,
you stay.

one day,
we will talk again
and no stammered heart
will beat like birds
if our hands touch;
one day,
you will realise
that sooner than you have,
you could have
shar
presumptionsi know i'm a very common-,
innocent-looking girl.
i look like i floss my teeth
at least once a week
and have never worn
thong underwear,
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 crac
life without youi watched you,
bone-handled
battered and floral
suitcase in hand,
as your knotted tree-branch fingers
grip the doorhandle.

i watched you
disappear
before the door swung
shut.
i saw your thin skin
slip between pavement
and cracks in the concrete
city walls.
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
i smiled.
leonardwoodi had missed you before i'd met you;
i am missing you before you've left
&today you are gone.

there is nothing,
no drink nor organic acid nor chemical high
to dim the lights on the epilleptic flashes
of love i can't let go,

the panic i blindly follow
as your airplanes leave from boston
&chicago and turn from wings to wheels
as a bus takes you three hours further
to a war zone in missouri.

you told me you loved me
as you vanish for nine months
of the next year.
you promise letters to make up
for the fear you impressed upon us,
love i never let leave,
an empty room i could never stay;
you promised me words
&a heart a thousand miles west
&hop
why jk rowling embodies depression as dementorsi wanted to talk to you about happiness
but i don't think anyone in this room is qualified to talk about something
they probably don't know much about, and
how it spends most of its time
seeping out of your skin in whatever ways it can
because maybe your body is too toxic for it.

that's when you start having your moment.

the moment when you're not sure
how to be alive,
when strings become nooses
in the stars of your eyes,
thin objects mock your bones
and the instruments of your heart
act like knives thirsting for blood.

pavement shatters underfoot.
the cracks become teeth,
sharp and unfriendly as you pass;
they're grey, great
preemptive breakup poemif anyone ever tells you your sadness isn't physical,
show them the ache in your bones,
the raw skin on your arms or wrists or hips or thighs,
the imprint of your foetal body on your mattress from the days you couldn't bear to leave.

and you see this?
this is what hurt looks like.
i want you to look closer, lean in a little until you can feel the sadness on my breath
and i want you to watch my eyes. count how often they blink and count how many of them are forcing back words i still can never say.
i don't want you to miss a second of how you make me feel.

i want to be what keeps you up at night
i want to be the reason you can't eat
the first poem i wrote since i told you i love youthe star-soaked stains
that covered our nudity
gives way at last
to a tequila sunrise,
so low in the sky;

it's still bright enough
to sting my eyes,
and yet i can't bring myself
to hate it.

your body next to mine,
every effort is made
to move a heavy limb
closer
because any space
we have
is space i don't want.

i am sometimes humbled
by my feelings,
the way they swell
in my throat
just how the ocean
tastes the shore.

there is always something new
to find hidden in my heart,
summoned by my words,
or the salt of your skin
wearing like wind on shale
against mine.

i don't think i can ever tell you
i love you enough.

i
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
Browse More Like This
Download File
HTML, 143 bytes more ▶

More from *ohsostarryeyed

north station"why is it you always come home covered in blood?"

"because i never bring a change of clothes with me."

"is it your blood this time, or someone else's?"

"oh, it's rebecca's."

"why is rebecca bleeding?"

"i think she's stopped by now."

"glad to hear it, but why was she bleeding in the first place?"

"right. rebecca got hit by a train."

"gosh- is she alright?"

"yeah, of course."

"shit, good thing. man, what happened?"

"i told you, rebecca got hit by a train."

"no shit. i mean, how did she get hit by the train?"

"well, see, she was on the tracks at the moment the train was-"

"fuck off. you know what i mean."

"i'm just messing with y
federal express EDITon wednesdays, anne would wake up at nine o'clock.

she would take a shower at nine-thirty, after she made herself a small cup of coffee with a teaspoon of sugar and a drop of milk.

by ten o'clock, she was dressed. anne would spend the next hour and a half in the kitchen, baking cranberry scones and picking tea leaves from the small pot next to the coffee grinder.

at eleven-thirty, anne would be finished with the scones and fresh tea. she would take to pacing in front of the large picture windows at the front of her house-  he would be here in thirty minutes.

anne's nervous tics showed when she was pacing. her fingers would wrap around her
Vulpes vulpesveins creep along the inner corner
of your elbow, like ivy on fire or
foxes flying from tree stumps,
the ones i hear screaming outside my window-

like lonely people crowded on a
train and sitting in ugly silence while
their hands call to be held.

the foxes make me cry,

and i forget to breathe
until we pigeon-step into the

vanishing points of the sky-
it's like
no one even knows anymore;
no one remembers to think
it's beautiful to see the skyline melt; it's
everything and nothing -- you and me, respectively.
a jaw of glassyou are made of glass, lit with fireflies and
firemen and fireflowers. i can see the heat
tremble like smoke to the black sky as you
tap on your jaw.

pearls slide to the cherry pits of your stomach,
tickled with daisies and ipecac syrup to
gut you like an oyster.
hollow boy, save the glow caught between
your transient, transparent bones- i can see
the snakes in your stomach writhing, pulled
taut and shelled like intestines, wrought like
a chain necklace about your throat.

you are gauze-between-
my-fingers-and-gauze-between-my-fingers,
and-gauze-between-my-fingers, and-gauze-
oh, like a butterfly locked inside its chrysalis,
hematophilia"did you crawl in through the hole in the fence again?"

"no."

"then why are your knees muddy? and your elbows scraped?"

"because i saw a dog get run over on the highway by an eighteen-wheeler last night."

"yeah?"

"yeah. i saw its guts unravel like streamers, like those snakes-in-a-can."

"yeah?"

"yeah. there was so much blood; i rolled around in it, and it smelled like dirt and pennies."

"yeah?"

"yeah. it's stuck under my fingernails, too. i can't fucking get rid of it."

"is that from rolling in it?"

"no;  i scooped some up and put it in an empty vodka bottle so i could paint with it later."

"why'd you have an alcohol container in

Featured in Groups:

Not currently featured in any groups.

Details

January 6
143 bytes
Link
Thumb

Statistics

Comments: 2
Favourites: 30 [who?]


Views: 308 (0 today)
Downloads: 2 (0 today)
[x]

it's an analogy for you.

:iconohsostarryeyed:

your sweatshirt became ghost to me.
:iconohsostarryeyed:
it haunts the part of my room that is almost hidden away in the closet but i don't have the heart to tuck it there just yet.

six word story
:icontrembling-knees:
~trembling-knees Jan 6, 2013   General Artist
I love this, clothes are so often ghosts of people who left them here.
Reply
:iconohsostarryeyed:
*ohsostarryeyed Jan 13, 2013
it's so strange how they hang around like that
Reply
Add a Comment:
 
Preview   Add Comment
©2013 deviantART. All rights reserved
About Us | Contact Us | Developers | Careers | Site Tour | Help & FAQ Advertise | Premium Membership Etiquette | Privacy Policy | Terms of Service | Copyright Policy