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my palpitationswhen a palpable change
breathes discordance in my chest,
it is because
i am missing you.
you are an essential element
found in the body of the universe,
lock and key
struck in me.
i want the love i feel
to shine from me
the cosmos and stardust
collecting in the corners of your eyes
while you sleep.
and when i trail my fingers
like routes along a mountain peak
over your neck,
the thrumming is the sound
of solar flares.
i want there to be no question
that when my heartbeat stutters,
it is imitating my words
when i tell you that you are
my sun and stars.
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 there it will stay.
look me in the eye
and tell me what it's like
to be loved by me;
i want to know that the way
you make my bones ache
with swells of ardor
i want to know that the way
my mouth dips into the
hollow of your neck,
finding its pulse at ease,
i swear-i am sad from wanting
but not from wanting you.
the winters worn away
and with the snow melted the brokenness
we were and i am not sorry for it.
i've stopped cussing beneath my breath,
been wearing more black
and if you so much as
cross the threshold
of my house
this isn't about you.
this is about the way you still manage
to pull at my heartstrings strung
across countries and continents,
the length of the world,
my soul tangled
how your hand still manages
to wrap around mine and i hear your voice,
thick with culture,
the stereotype supreme of irish catholic,
murmuring in my ear that it's all
right while you move my fingers
into my throat-
this is about how-
no matter how far you move (away)-
you will keep your grasp tight on me
and crush me if you can
just so you don't
for those who want to be in loveyou want to fall in love
hard enough to break your bones and
lighten your feet
lighten your heart
so softly that the butterflies you feel
pattering with their gossamer wings
beneath the cage of your ribs
and the breath,
blue in the summer,
can kiss you and the monarchs
as sweetly as your love
and her lips.
you dream of them at night.
silken like clean bedsheets,
familiar as your favourite chair
when you curl up with
a mug of herbal tea.
you feel at home
with her body curled in yours,
only able to sleep
with her skin under your fingers
scenting the blankets
with something no perfume
could ever mirror.
you write love letters
you dream emptily
unless she is there.
you want to fall in love
the way the gods drink ambrosia,
you want to treat her
better than their nectar,
sweeter than honeybees
and their summer-sticky feet.
you want a love beyond poetry,
from winter flurries
to springtime rosebuds
to summer sweet lemonade
to autumnal red leaves u
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
no one listensthis is the part where you start listening.
i'm not one to pour my words,
cheap wine no glass just red solo cup,
into an empty room.
i'm not one to talk when everyone
only pretends they're listening when really,
they're just hearing.
the part you start listening
comes at the part where i show you my skin.
i could show you my heart all i want
but you won't hear me.
i could tell you about every moment
i've spent basking, drowning
in whatever endless emotion
and you would nod sympathetically.
but you still wouldn't listen.
not til i show you my skin
screenprinted and scattered in scars,
hatchmarking of blended bends
and tall and stretched.
or if i told you how i've left my body
in shambles, and left it, broken
and rained on like cardboard boxes on city streets
five years after my destruction proved inadequate
until someone else
with fracturing fingers
ruined me worse.
my bones splintered under the thin
stretch of skin
covering them until i grew thick limbs,
a trunk like a tree.
i don't see myself when i look in the mirrormy mirror shows me
a woman with the face of a daughter,
with a body tainted by years
of scars and starvation,
and ruined by a set of hands
the woman can hardly remember.
it does not show,
myself to myself.
there are wide blue eyes
and bags of gold
hanging off the chest,
and i know this is me
but it is not my soul-
to a place where it
a burden of destruction,
a simmering funeral pyre,
is not that place.
100 theme challenge001. morals
there is nothing wrong with leaving behind politeness for happiness and we could all do to remember.
the aches in my skin parade within my bones like a sin.
i say your name over and over like it is a prayer to keep my head above water.
004. clear skies
just because things are cloudy doesn't mean there's no sun behind them.
005. happy birthday
i give you a feminine loofa, funny boxers, and your favourite candy- i want this to show you i love you even though i'm broke.
my white flesh browns under my thin skin- i am rotting to my core.
hours of letters written and phone calls singeing my anxieties: these are the cinders of us.
008. full moon
in the full moon, we turn into wolves and howl our sorrows to the sky.
009. first breath after coma
after years of empty eyes, i felt the air stiffen in my lungs and the next thing i knew, i cried at how full i was and the silence i would never again have.
in the warm light
barnaclesearthbreaking shouts internalised,
love me, love me, show me something real,
love me. and the feeling of a heart
dripping through the cracks sings, and you
keep calling but the seaside gusts pull
your voice from your throat, and it
doesn't sound like words anymore,
we're like barnacles, holding fast
to the rocks as wave after wave of
everything that could kill us envelops
us. and we're caught in the salt like
two canker sores, clutching for
dear life so that we can
ocean crystals might claw toward the
clouds, and these gales make us realise
that we can only hold on to nothing, nothing
and hastily hidden untruths for so long
before we've got to
i'll slip under the sea and watch
as this ethereal, alien world i'm in
shifts from every shade of green to
the one and only black. maybe i will
cut gills into my neck, or maybe i will
break wings through my skin, or maybe i
can be something real.
but you, you just fasten your seatbelt
and sit on your fingers, brea
poetry for non-poetsI guess he was wrong when he said
'you are poetry'
because all you were made up of
were line breaks and phrases
that never, ever went together.
The disharmony between your heart and lungs
was something he liked listening to,
just thinking there was a thunderstorm in your chest
but never considering that maybe
you were hungry or drunk or hurting.
No. These were all so beautiful
and worth writing about in the dark.
But I guess the best decision he ever made
was to pull his head away from your shoulders,
take a good long look at your shaking form
and run farther than he ever thought
those bent knees could take him.
145. fire in the moonlightyou're fire
in the moonlight,
adding a million
to the burning chill
peaceful before you
but it's just as
i guess what i'm
trying to say
is that you're
the extra pillow
on my bed,
the extra petal
on every flower.
everything is just
everything is just
so much more lovely
Story TellerI could write you a story,
I promise I could
And on all of the pages
I'd write you a smile
You would dance with the raindrops
and not run for shelter
You'd laugh in the sunshine
and not look for shade
I'd write you a story
where you would be happy
No sickness, no struggle,
no sorrow, no pain
I'd make all your dreams beautiful,
catch every nightmare--
Then I'd make a collage
of the things you have made
I swear, if you'd let me,
I'd try to fix you...
Then I looked through the mirror
and saw someone new.
love poem for a linguistI love you
like the skeleton
of a sentence,
the essentials of meaning.
I love you
with nouns and verbs
with the barest
a paring down
a grammar of my own design
in which everything
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'd give up everything for you to be herei couldn;t know a single
thing about the way grass grows or the
way a baby has it's first smile or
the way the world turns or any significant
segment of life that poses an unsolved
mystery to my mind
my milieu doesn't mean a thing to me
because you're not in it
and i'm cycling fast through the stages of
regret and humiliation and pain and indignation, but
right now, wearing your warm, oversized jumper
and encapsulated by your scent
there isn't a thing i wouldn't give up
just to be in your arms,
the days when you were a stage.i gulp down steamy trains of air
and they tumble down my tunneled throat
before i spit them up.
you are my heroin for escapes
into a maze of fevered blurs
in my heart i made you out
to be some sort of
monster, but you weren't.
if anything, you saved me
before i went and destroyed
i think you would do good
to let me drown in a reservoir
pickled with tears. i wouldn't
think twice of it, but keep your fingers
crossed whenever you visit
my frostbitten waters.
you once told me
that it is impossible
to love someone who writes.
but there is something different
about "someone who writes"
and a writer. because writers
drown much slower, and
tend to drag others down
i'll plunder and plunge the world,
or maybe i could settle for you.
i have reached my critical point.
scar my words and keylog into my
mind before i combust. i cannot speak
without a pilgrimage of words on receipts.
this is it: this
the forbidden romanceyou're the butterfly
whose fragile wings
you are never bound
to the bulletinboard-
never a collector's item.
slinks only in the shadows-
your bones catch the light
like a thinly strung net
and the glow is
it's in the way that you kiss
the ever sweet
empty yet saccharine
lingering for days
on the tip of my tongue
like your name,
the sugary lies
with no hint of
anything but artifice,
it is you
who makes me who i am.
Keep in Touch!
^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