[x]

the destruction of destructioni leave
toenail clippings
bobby pins
&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
silliest,
strangest book i know
&you have me create
voices for each character.
i am most comfortable as the narrator,
plain &unassuming,
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
self destruction
only to be thwarted by somet

dissociationi have entered a tunnel,
archways and curled walls
of the clash of unwanted bodies,
fingers in my throat
aching to summon blood,
and palpitations.

i hear nothing.

trapped in the fence of my head,
i am thinking in scattered seeds to plot
in further regions, safer than
they can be now.

i am thinking loudly
about amorphous concepts and rhetoric,
the wavy distortions of my body,
the undulations of my skin,
the black vignette of my vision.
i am gulliver in lilliput,
enormous comparative to my surroundings;
the world is tailored to fit my body,
but nothing else.

i am dissociated,
i am a sliver of the moon
untethered-

at best, i am a petal in t

listen honey, here comes your mani hear your gaslight anthem
playing in my head
on repeat
on repeat
for the first time in months.

my stomach is knitting itself
a raw sweater,
pink and greying flesh
from the sickness of worry.

i made the mistake
of playing it back to you.

you tell me you miss me,
you love me,
these songs in your vernacular
writing your thoughts,
but the thoughts are not yours.

it was well intentioned
but too far gone,
the thought has trailed
its way along lines
of train tracks-
i cannot think of you
unless you come back
home.

there are monsters in my head.there are monsters in my head.
they scream and rattle their bars,
fingers round my bones
to shake the cage.

i cannot sleep.

no amount of blood spilled
or water thrown down
the throat the way the camera
and knife
will in the morning
can quiet them.

i wonder if the doctors will see the monsters,
or if they have learned to keep quiet
and still in the light;
to pretend they are not there
until no one is around to see them;

and regardless of their sessility,
regardless of their muteness,
the moment the darkness comes,
i see their faces
again.

breathe deepbreathe deep.

breathe it shallowly if you need to,
if filling your lungs to bursting
is too much,
too soon;

but breathe the depth-

of ocean,
of history,
of tree roots
and ethnic roots
and the roots planted by love.

breathe deep
and the orgiastic fullness
it gives the empty shell
you try so hard to stuff
but nothing sticks;

breathe deep
because deep is star-soaked
with constellations,
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 best way to remember somethingi cry
every time you write me a letter-

me,
in all my damaged glory,
still loved across miles of river and fields.

you are unyielding and unforgetting,
finding the words we never had
before.

there are many moonlit stories
to recount and to expound upon in
coming months-

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

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.

it's an analogy for you.your sweatshirt became ghost to me.

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.

charlestownthere are days where everything-
every ladder,
every sister,
every river-
reminds me of charlestown

i jump to correct those
who are talking about south carolina
when i remember they're talking
of charleston,
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
break
down
and i dream of you,
just you,
and you stand before me
in your newly-shaven hair
and dark-framed glasses,
and i can only feel
the most overwhelming sense
of completion.

it is nights like those
that t

materialism .collabjohn's bed was crooked against the wall, with enough space between the two for his pillow to slip down every night. it is never made but usually empty, much like the rest of the room. his wallet was full of condoms, the box in the slightly opened nightstand drawer with two strays within. john's socks were paired up neatly in his dresser, and he had no closet. a baseball bat was stretched across the threadbare rug in such a way that it would trip someone unfamiliar with the layout. like a robber. things you will never find there are his iphone, ipod, and his grandfather's pocket watch from when he was in the world war.

evelyn paints a small c

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

lovedrunkshe looks at me, all big doe eyes and cupid-bow lips, tells me, now i'm not trying to say i'm about to kill myself, but i'm about to kill myself.

the traffic light is glass. not that it's reflective, not that it's bright, but that it's so slow, a liquid, moving like a year. it's also what my blood has become with these words.

we're in my car but i'm scared. i know i'm the one behind the wheel, but i don't know what she's got in her purse. i don't know her name but i do know she's drunk. so am i. i know we shouldn't be driving but i couldn't leave such sad eyes at a bar. i guess, if i'm being entirely honest, i also couldn't leave suc

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

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

Browse More Like This

Download File
TXT, 662 bytes more ▶

More from *ohsostarryeyed

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

my first drunk poemwriters write whilst drunk
because every word
fumbled and smisspelled
comes out beautifully
because of the truth it holds

my ear bleeds from constant burns
and my stomach burns from constant bleeds
because beauty is never enough untouched, it seems,
the way anything i put in me is always too much.

i bled and evoked sympathy tonight.
i drank until i needed a body to stand me straight.
my organs writhed like heathens in moonlight ritual
and i let it shake.
i shook to be honest
but i was never honest enough
to admit from where the vibration came.
i shook with fear
and trepidation
and loneliness
and never, ever being adequate

first weekend and realisationsyou begin to talk
because talking means that
someone else can't
&you start to realise
(as most girls do)
that you have a boyfriend

&soon
he's not just a boyfriend;
he's your boyfriend
&he's not just better than
anyone else in the world
he's better than
anything else in the world

&you would trade years off your life
to spend a little longer with him
or to see him smile when he's sad
or to feel his face in your hair
the way he does when he hugs you
&you can't feel it
because right now he's too far away

but distance is only the space between
point a and point b
between you&between me
&if you give it just a little more tim

my dead gay brother becomes memore and more i am becoming an invisible monster.

i can't cry without an audience
i am willing to bend and bend and bend and
break
to just get a little
love love love lovelvoe lvoelve love love love
love me
i will do anything for you if you just tell me you love me
i am a nobody
with backbreaking pains to become something beautiful
and if i can't have that
i want to be invisible
i want to be nothing
and still
oh how i wish it wasn't so
but still
as nothing as i am
i want you to love me.

bipolar IIa week is spent
in throes of excitability,
irritation, unstoppable words,
and ideas with wings of their own-
they soar in their preternatural flight
without a second's notice
and meander along separate currents.

sleep is an elusive,
abstract idea,
fought for so ruthlessly,
only to have it slip away,
silent,
mere hours later.

i am icarus, resin-winged in thought
and flying til my fingers can
almost
brush the sun.

i am icarus, resin-winged in thought
and watching my feathers drop
until my body
is subject once more
to the relentless rules of gravity.

hitting the dirt
hurts more every time-
physics has no mercy for bruise

before georgia takes you again

View Gallery

Featured in Groups:

Not currently featured in any groups.

Details

Submitted: February 26
File Size: 662 bytes

Link

Thumb

Statistics

Comments: 9
Favourites: 20 [who?]
Views: 330 (0 today)
Downloads: 1 (0 today)

[x]

the awakening

by *ohsostarryeyed, Feb 26, 2013, 4:31:23 PM
Literature / Poetry / General Poetry / Free Verse

it's like i gave you the poison
when it seeped through my skin

and when you told me
had no one told you different,
you would have learned what it's like
to cut yourself open,

i had no other thought
than how completely ruinous
destroyed like rome--
or maybe just a shanty--
i was:

toxic and sunken like atlantis
and like the ocean,
eroding every beautiful piece
of statue, marble, and man
i could touch:

i am ocean edna,
drowning you in me.

the awakeningby *ohsostarryeyed

Literature / Poetry / General Poetry / Free Verse

©2013 *ohsostarryeyed

by kate chopin

i want to read that again

i miss my first boyfriend
i hope he is well

~~joy 0 0~~

~~wow 0 0~~

~~mad 0 0~~

~~sad 0 0~~

~~fear 0 0~~

~~neutral 0 0~~

Mood: Passionate

~BMWYSP Feb 28, 2013 Professional Writer

I love your references to Rome and Atlantis. <3

Reply

*ohsostarryeyed Mar 6, 2013

i'm glad!

Reply

~BMWYSP Mar 8, 2013 Professional Writer

Those subjects fascinate me.

Reply

~v-espertine Feb 26, 2013

toxic and sunken like atlantis
and like the ocean
so very beautiful <3

Reply

*ohsostarryeyed Feb 27, 2013

thank you!!

Reply

~ChloroformBoy Feb 26, 2013

i was discussing that book yesterday in my american lit class lawl

Reply

*ohsostarryeyed Feb 27, 2013

u liek?

Reply

~ChloroformBoy Feb 28, 2013

eh. we were discussing how it's very possible that edna was pregnant at the end

Reply

*ohsostarryeyed Mar 6, 2013

well truth, i could see that being part of her feminist "no fucks given" plight. no birth control, no baby bitchezzz

Reply

Previous
Next