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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.
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.
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;
this is less of a love poem and more of athere is something to be said
about resisting the temptation
to start out with a bang.
the hallway of your neck
has never lost its scent
and it's something, i swear,
i swear, i can never forget
because it's something surreal
to wake up while you're asleep
and feel you pull me closer
til our faces almost meet-
hold onto that almost,
hold onto it like stardust.
you need to touch me in a whisper
because it's been too long
since i've felt the hand of someone
who actually meant it,
someone who actually meant something
and i'm so glad, my god,
i'm on my knees
i am praying to(o,) my god
that we won't burn out so quick this time,
i'm too tired to bear new scars
i just want you to love me
but that's not something i could ever ask.
just some time maybe,
i know that no august moon can watch us forever
and keep us warm,
and no constellation can teach me everything
i've ever needed to know.
but everything ugly i ever saw about you
and everything unflattering?
it's gone like the magic we
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.
things i don't know about you that bother me thati wonder what it's like
to fall asleep beside you
in a post coital haze,
and to wake in the morning
to run to class.
do you wake me,
do you kiss my forehead,
do we make love again-
i don't know,
and do you wet your toothbrush
before applying toothpaste,
tell me you don't leave the sink running,
it must get awfully tired.
and what do you dream of
when i lie next to you,
blissfully more than just a body;
what will you dream of
a year from now?
please tell me i can fit into
your big picture
as easily as i can fit into
a lack of language, in coloursyou tell me you miss me
and that i am more beautiful
than any girl in georgia
or even barcelona.
everything is fitting like magic
between fingers when they
and i swear for the past three nights,
that's all i've dreamt.
give me acrylics
and i still can't make you see
the exact shade of warm
you are to me.
give me the ocean
and there are not enough waves
in its body
to show just the way i feel
when our own vessels move together.
seven months since we last said goodbye,
since we last said hello-
i could fill libraries
to love you.
what i really want to ask
is if you think you can
love me this time.
one hundred waysthere are one hundred ways
i have to fill myself
that still keep me empty,
and for all the love for you
i hold in my heart,
i treat you like you're nothing.
you have built structures
and outlines of cities to press
against a dark inked sky,
you are the blood of a broken pen
coursing like a river
through my veins.
i look the other way.
i look for holes
in the sweatshirt you gave me
because there are holes in you,
and i wonder if they match up
i leave it tucked just
inside of my closet
so that i don't see it
unless i look for it,
but when i do
i pull it in piles
up to my face
to be sure
it still smells like you-
four months later,
the death of selfi can't find words to
i can't articulate
and blood doesn't stick-
i am stuck with my self
and the monsters
who have inched in,
night by night
until their figures
loom over me,
i am mourning.
the loss of you,
no matter how temporary;
to destroy my body
beyond its crumbling pillars;
the sadness in every cell
that contains the ocean,
wave after wave of thorough dejection,
apathy and agony
that nothing seems to solve.
i do not move.
i exist because it is what i know to do.
i breathe only because it takes effort to stop.
the hole in which i am buried
is filled with heavy, sodden soil
and my blood offerings
and constantly emptying myself
receives no mercy from a deity,
i am mourning
the death of my self.
on fueling the fire with your own spityou are so gorgeous, janie,
and do not let anyone
tell you different. okay?
okay, gradie. what
you do not know, baby,
is that outside of your arms
i want to die a thousand small
deaths because the world is too much
when you leave me so empty. what you do
not know is that outside of your arms all my
senses are brightened because you just lit them.
what you do not know is that outside of your arms these
waters are rising and i am not treading the levee walls carefully.
i welcome my tragedy and its ecstasy.
five downlove, tell me -
tell me i see the future and you
will wind up well alone;
i don't want you with anyone,
i pull your air into my lungs,
an influenza in every syllable of
breath. and i am a cluster of hills
across your face, the reason you
said you didn't believe in
wearing sandals in july.
i keep track of time
in terms of crossword puzzles,
sundays especially difficult
because i used to pray like god listened
to my repents and hopes then.
you would take my unfinished columns
and fill them in with a different pen colour
and that was how i knew things were
and there was never any bitterness
to it either, the passing hand to hand
of platitudes that wilted like the heads of birds
but never broke too much. tomorrow night
i will do the sudoku puzzle instead and
ask the moon to put its trauma back
where you kept the pencils
(when you kept
than the needle)
instead i tuck my hands
under the pillow beneath my head,
hoping that hiding them
will keep me safe.
i am worthy of more than a fleeting glancei will summon a scream from
the center of my chest
loud, earth shattering,
angry, and true,
bottled up and concentrated:
"i am woman,
hear me, listen to me.
i am worth more than
your full body
scans. i am worth more than
how your eyes linger
far too long
on my breasts and legs and
ass and face.
my opinions matter,
my opinions are valid.
if i say no, that does not mean
maybe, that does not mean yes.
i do not speak in codes,
i am not manipulative or
more emotional than i have right to be."
i will yell this until it echoes
across the mountains and resounds
in the heart of all of humanity,
pumping through their veins like
blood and oxygen and nutrients,
you are a poem that has never met paper,
a sun that has never risen
though as the sun sets, throwing darkness
across this loft bedroom, your smile
is all i can see
i lay alone now, but tangled in your words
and the sound of your four-stringed guitar.
i think i will dream of your hands, warm
as they trail a pattern across my waist,
filling the aching silence with colour
and a song about a dead girl
brought back to life
virginity is like an envelopemy mother said her mother knew.
i wonder if she stumbled home like i did,
fifteen and beer-loose
tied to the door like a thunderstorm with black lips
and i wrote a story about disaster,
a quiet two sleds long.
a box full of beads, i swallowed
fifteen needles, mommy. don’t
tell me i’m not sorry.
don’t call me a whore you bag of bones
you lock-loose suitcase do you even
recognize me look at my face my toothache skin
i am not the one with the knife.
my mother never slept with a boy
who didn’t love her never let a boy
sleep on her while she lay awake beneath
the shroud of his skin breathing only
when her voice-box gathered too much dust.
you have to know i didn’t do
it on purpose. he slid beers down my throat
till i felt like a landfill.
i was not yet a crescendo. maybe i was a polka-
you couldn’t tell. i got home
with my legs full of nightmare.
the doctor said xanax.
i said i am a ruin like the ones
we saw in peru.
a balloon in a funeral poem.
the end of our storyThis is the last poem I will ever write you;
this is a week spent bleeding myself of
the memory of your touch,
ripping threads of you from my smile,
until I am no longer yours -
until the words I write will never again live
in the shadows cast across your chest
by jutting rib bones in the early hours
of the morning, by morning sun
falling through dusted windows
This is my goodbye, written
from the corners of suburban trains
the depths of the dark nights;
small hours between
things that have made me smile
which I dedicated to you, because
sometimes you deserve my sadness
Your whole life has been a story
of losing yourself in a world
you never really understood and
being fleetingly found again, at home
in the arms of a stranger
who you convinced yourself
you could love
but you were in love with being lost
more than you were ever
in love with me
and I am afraid to write
about how I loved you more
than I ever loved anything,
because i know that it was
never the same
In love, the world is collateral damage.I'm in love and it's
How am I supposed to wake up
every morning and open my eyes
and see you there,
being someone I love so intensely
that I don't know how to
write about it?
And how am I supposed
to wash my hair and
brush my teeth and
do the laundry and
all these mundane
you're in the other
over your books with
an intensity you'll
pay me later?
And how can anyone
expect me to run rationally
around this goddamned
world and pay attention
to the speed limits and
stop lights when I
have lost all
rational control over
I'm in love
and it's wiping the
slates clean for
I have forgiven you.You asked me why
and all I can tell you is that
your arms came back to mine
like homing pigeons and
that was all I needed.
daydreams in e minorin my (sparsely) spare time, i enjoy:
sizing up cloudless skies,
so blue i
could gulp them up like water.
fantasizing about the ways
(in future days)
i may no longer be so sad.
derailing trains of thought
that injure(d) me
with their locomotive force.
clinging to a loveless thing
like a balloon on a string
that floats (not too far) away from me.
(dreaming of) letting go
of strings and
silly day dreams.
Little Miss It“Do you enjoy her company?”
That, Avadaci concluded, had been the extent of his grandfather’s kindness. Thank the stars he had broken his neck after a failed attempt to ascend the castle staircase. Not that many were privy to this information. The official listing on the cause of death involved something along the lines of falling in battle after slaying at least a dozen demons, although this was treated with quite a bit of skepticism by the general populace. Yet, interestingly enough, a decent portion of the locals believed a tale about the cannibals of Unkhtom devouring him whole.
Not that Avadaci really cared how his grandfather had died. He was just glad he was dead. And if he was glad his grandfather had died, Avadaci wondered, why did he have to attend his funeral? In fact, the whole kingdom was glad his grandfather had died. Why did they have to attend the funeral?
“Oh Avad,” proclaimed his mother, “obv
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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