[x]

spoiled little girli have turned my body
into a void
so that i can love
with it
instead of my heart.
i feel nothing
so i feel nothing
for you,
but your skin has not
met mine
in a week
and it has me
worried.

this one
loves completely vanilla,
though there once were poems
of red clay and sun;
this one
kisses with no ridges
and i cannot seem to
find a way to stay captivated;
this one
touches when i cannot remember,
so i run
when i see the silhouette of his face,
giving flashes
like nightlights or fireflies
of a dark room
i seem to have almost
forgotten.

i think you have spoiled me terribly
because i feel nothing
worth feeling
and k

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

scattered grassrootsi am the great plains-
vast,
barren,
and sparse.

i begin losing my hair and
scattered grassroots
define me.

i am tumbleweeds lost in the wind,
tumultuous dust storms
from the dryness i leave you in.
this becomes my skin.

i miss having someone
to tell i love,

but the ache it left in my bones,
deserts and sands,
is reminder enough

that fond remembrance
doesn't mean it's
there.

the commutei keep your kiss
under my bed:
i won't lose it
just because you aren't here.

instead,
i will hesitate in the spaces
between the weeks
we are together,
and we are
apart.

i will write you letters
and gaps and commas
when my head stops spinning
and my pride takes a bow
to the lion of my heart,
and feel the stinging air
of imagination
seep out of its balloon.

put your (love) affairs in order, dear
and find me under your blankets;

i want the places i know best
to be the ones made of skin,
secretly tucked away
in the crook of your elbow
where my body rests, or
behind your ear,
like a pencil-

i want you to write me words

before georgia takes you again

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
an

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

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

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

alpengloweverything hard-kept in the heart is falling onto paper. each word so well-fought to be kept within the chest becomes a snowflake from november skies, but the winds are unseasonably warm and a fire is kindled inside each bone in place of a bitter chill.

there are ten thousand things i can never tell you.

the way that wars are fought, i wage battles among my selves to keep the quiet. you will never hear my voice, too soft like the pillow beneath your head each time our bodies find each other, say how my breath becomes a porch swing when we touch and i sway.

i can never call you by any name, given at birth or given by heart. you will neve

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.

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
were
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
you'll ever,
ever
forget the feel of my skin
on yours
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 touche

unending, ceaselessnothing exists
better
than the moment
hesitant
anticipatory
of entrance
entranced
by the sway
porch swings
of hips
how pendulums
tick

and we talk
murmurs
until taciturnity
takes hold
of each others' tongues
and gasps
sudden
cause gaps
in the connection
unbreakable
as unity
unties
only to retie
in ceaseless
reunion
again.

the vomiting crowd of coney islandthe destructive walls are shaded
in grey and i am remembering
every feeling i have forgotten-

i am terrified.

this is a city that never sleeps,
the bones of my chest thrumming
like taxi cabs in the streets,
my fingers shaking
in want for comfort and solace
and love.

i am not standing
in lorca's vomiting crowd-
i am his vomiting crowd,
looking high and low
and between my clenched fists
for catharsis and purification,
for the reason of this illness
pressed against my skin,
for the indefinable sickness
i drown in like bubbles of spit
day in and day out.

i fear the restraints
i've placed for myself,
that they may not be the

go to sleep for the love of godi kind of feel like ripping my face off.

look-
it's not one of those sad, suicidal stories. i mean, if i believed in suicide in the way that means i could do it, then yeah, it would be. but i don't, and i guess you're kind of lucky for that because now you can go to sleep with a clear conscience.

i won't ever tell you about how many pages and books and scraps of paper and unsent text messages and notes on the backs of my hands i've written for you, or how inarticulate you were when you wanted to say how you felt. i won't ever tell you how i wished for a few words that could tell me that i was loved, even a little, and i sure as fuck won

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More from *ohsostarryeyed

i, the ever-scared lioni am breathing for the urge to tell you something beautiful

i do not kiss with lips but
with sweet bones thrust sunward,
wondering what it is like to be embraced
by the arms of a skeleton

the king and queen and monarch (butterfly)
crowns of roses or holly,
winter brings cold and thoughts of you

i, the ever-scared lion,
shudder in my sheets

i can show you fear in a handbasket,
the girth of the sun snapping leather belts
until our faces fall to the earth

the bottle was broken,
message pecked by gulls-
i hope you know i said i loved you
and the world will fall at your feet

we are but lonely dolls
and your murmurs of eternity
p

GodlinessDr. Finch likes to label my phases.  Today is a Fear Day, meaning I am too afraid to get out of bed.  Fear Days scare my mother more than my Fire Days, Germ Days, and Intruder Days combined.  She wakes me this morning to have me get ready to go to her church.  Her hand is warm as it shook my shoulder, but I scream.

"Shhh, honey, it's just me.  It's time to get ready for church."

My head is still buried beneath my blanket.  "I can't go.  Please leave me alone."

"What day is it?"  she asks, although she knows it is Sunday.

"Sunday.  Sundays are Fear Da

the personal ad of a writerumpteen year old woman, married once to the false hope of literary promise, from themiddleof, nowhere.

i spend night by fire, with a wish to fall in to bear beautiful, melting scars. burn off all my hair. singe my eyelids. sleep in cinders. i spend time in bed alone, celibate, not-sleeping, not-dreaming, too-tired, just-thinking.

i am often seen wearing a coat of blue wool, holding a knock-off coffee-chain cup, carrying emotional baggage in a brown leather suitcase.

unemployed, undetermined, unattached, underwater, unimportant.

in search of a hand to hold, heart to spit out, lips to kiss the scars on my wrists, mouth to suck out my soul[

a death of something beautifulabove the ground, you swing and sway
kitchen table, a mile away;
beneath your feet,
i cannot sleep,
i lost my tears as i hit the hay.

lovebirds and old birds
and dovebirds and cold birds,
stuck in cages to be
flightless like no birds.

metal bars and music bars,

drinking beers from all the bars,
iron shrapnel from all the cars,
razorbites make all the scars,
broken wings fall from all the stars,
brokenhearted, you're far too far.

ELEVEN O'CLOCKI AM MAKING MY WORDS LOUD
SO THAT YOU MIGHT HEAR ME
FROM A MILLION MILES AWAY.

MY FACE MELTED INTO WAX
LAST NIGHT, FOLDED HANDS
TURNED INTO TREMBLING LOVERS.
I SCREAMED SILENCE,
FOX DROWNING BETWEEN
MUSIC BEATS, CAN YOU HEAR ME,
PLEASE TELL ME YOU HEAR ME.

CLOCK STRUCK ELEVEN AND I WAS
DOWN FOR THE COUNT,
I AM SCREAMING BUT MAKING NO
NOISE, A MILLION MILES,
A MILLION MILES-

I WISH YOU WOULD LOVE ME
THE WAY YOU DID WHEN
I WAS SIXTEEN.

the gutter babyhow does the sky look from
down there, gutter baby?
you're the black sheep amongst
raindrops, an algaed gargoyle
your headrest.

the sun greets you like she knew
you before, with a hard slap to
the face and a 'good morning,
pretty burn-out.'

you're full of yourself and alcohol,
you are as (w)hole as the
ripped knees in your jeans.

gutter baby, you can't see
the stars tonight with tears
sewing shut your eyelids.

wear your scars like bracelets,
glow-in-the-dark and mercurial.
you lie low in the ink of the dirt,
bumblebee lines racing
down your back.

the fish scales are scraping
the lining of your throat,
alcoholic, anaboli

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things i don't know about you that bother me that

by *ohsostarryeyed, Oct 31, 2012, 10:38:06 PM
Literature / Poetry / General Poetry / Free Verse

i 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,
not yet.

and do you wet your toothbrush
before applying toothpaste,
oh,
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
your arms,
eternally.

things i don't know about you that bother me thatby *ohsostarryeyed

Literature / Poetry / General Poetry / Free Verse

©2012-2013 *ohsostarryeyed

i don't know

-

8th september 2012
423am

i hate missing things

~justawhore May 10, 2013 New member

liar. Its HILARIOUS! You recycle the same bullshit. You dont know anything about me, just like I didnt about you. You still cant even write your own fucking name. Do you realize how pathetic that is? Its Sept 8 2012? You are definitely nuts

Reply

~peridot-magelette Dec 26, 2012

This is beautiful. Just. Wow.

Reply

*ohsostarryeyed Jan 28, 2013

thank you

Reply

~peridot-magelette Feb 12, 2013

I wonder this, too.

Reply

~CrackABone Nov 6, 2012 Hobbyist Traditional Artist

leaves me wanting, in all the aching jealous ways. it's beautiful and relatable so badly right now.

Reply

*ohsostarryeyed Nov 25, 2012

thank you, my love

Reply

~SimplyKelsie Nov 4, 2012 Hobbyist Writer

this has to be like my favorite

i just wish i got to know that stuff too..
before we broke up yesterday. Dx

Reply

*ohsostarryeyed Nov 25, 2012

:[ i'm sorry

Reply

=Sammur-amat Nov 4, 2012 General Artist

Awwh

Reply

~pengirl100and2 Nov 2, 2012 Writer

you may not know, but that's okay. It's beautiful nonetheless.

Reply

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