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phoenixthe paper is wet enough
that the ink bleeds,
words like blood
& blood like words,
it's called feeling
what you're doing.
it's called living
while you're alive.
i want to light
things on fire,
back to the ash
they once were,
of black, like
taking photos of my
bruised shins &
i won't give this sadness
the dignity of recognition.
it isn't here if i don't say it is.
i am wallowing in air,
swallows sing songs,
the snow is falling
and i am outside, bare skin
to the sky,
and i am waiting
for enough to fall
to cover me
night fading to darklet's talk about stars and sex and love and sadness,
drugs and poetry and how they're the same,
bones and madness and mischief and grief,
and how we're all reduced to them someday,
and ways that i can make you stay.
(i whispered that i love you
more than earth to you
when i meant it but could not say it.
you were asleep.)
you did a good job loving me while it lasted.
you left me as sadness, filled with smoke and a burning desire
to light a mentholated cigarette and bathe in rosewater.
i look like i belong on the wall of bones without you.
i will be there one day, i know i will die,
i just look like i'm dead before i stop breathing.
(the same night, you whispered that
you were leaving to-morrow
when you meant it and could not say it.
i was awake.)
cities and self esteemit is in this new place,
a world so strange
it's like looking at your face
in the black mirror of night,
that i realize
everyone is somebody's someone,
and i wish i could call you mine.
your body is a poem,
made up of lines
and reflect light
and hold significance;
and the number of freckles
like new initials
carved into elms and birches
by junior high sweethearts
in the 1970s.
the way your jaw sets a frame
to the birds of your lips,
the cage to contain the canary-
it is a sonnet
wrapped in enough skin
to keep us both warm:
you bring me so beautifully
close to feeling.
in a city as big as god
filling up my every inch of emptiness,
i swear i could get so lost here
that maybe i wouldn't feel
waldeni feel that
beauty is a shadow,
blood is liquid memory,
wind is ancestral whispering,
and love is why i am here.
you are why i am here.
sitting in this apartment,
six other girls in blue cushioned chairs
set around stone colored, plastic tables
and talking about cognitive distortions.
self hate runs rampant,
every wrong sized body
a testament to the understanding
that this is a truism
in our hands and bones.
we are too wrong to keep on
as we are.
i pretend i do not hear you.
i will sit here, with six other girls
in blue cushioned chairs,
and eat my turkey sandwich
with mayo and a tangerine.
you are why i am here.
you are a silver shadow,
a left-sided eastern wind
running over the ocean.
so we sit and talk about our feelings.
you have never come up.
you are why i am here.
police investigation"i've been thinking, what happens if i get killed."
"you...die, you know?"
"yeah, yeah. i mean, i'd take my last gasping breath, pull in all this oxygen that will never hit my blood as it leaves my body, taking life with every thump of my heart, but what happens after."
"d'you mean like heaven and hell, or what?"
"no...see, i'm scared the police will see my messy room and my mom will read my diaries and cry because i've been sad more than i've been happy. i don't want that."
"you're human. that's part of being human. you're sad so much so you can really hang on to that happy feeling when you get it."
"but you never can get it enough."
"no, i suppose you can't."
"but you know what i do?"
"what i do is i write this shit on my walls, i draw hearts and suns and write LOVE! LOVE! LOVE! LOVE! in all caps and exclamation points, just like that, and i just hope she thinks i know i'm loved. but see, i really don't. i hear it
i could breathe fireshe was a marvel,
something so complex
that there is no design
intricate enough to
symbolize the contradictions
of her body
i felled her,
i felt her
a writhing embrace,
she was a bird
a warming feather,
she was a breath
fresh air on a stagnant day,
a beauty unlike rose petals,
more like sandstone
as i watched the moon
give birth to the fire
of her skin.
eric and wanda's relationshiphis heels are rubbed raw to a shining pink, an inch away from free bleeding. his name is eric and his shoes are too small. his name is eric and his arms are more like a bulletin board than limbs. his name is eric and the last time he had a roof to live under, he was fourteen and shooting up for the first time.
the boy looks rough.
his mother left when he was sixteen, fed up with the hell he brought into the house -- the singed toilet bowl; the shaved cat; the hypodermic needles.
eric says his father left when he was eight. by "left", eric means he found him staining the bath tub crimson with his wrists. it took two weeks and four bottles of bleach before anyone could shower without screaming as the red washed from hidden crevices of the basin.
the last time he had a decent meal was too long. when he bends down, the entire outline of his spine smiles at passersby, greeting them with eve
hinc illae lachrimaeyou've got wrists of an angel
bent back far enough
to welcome a silver kiss
to fall like dust
the ash of a human once born.
it's enough to
fall in love with fervor
a fever strung like faerie lights
between my knees.
you're used to resting elbows
on the shelves of my hips,
you're used to resting teeth
on the ledge of my lips,
to use me like a bed
instead of a person,
something to lean into.
i want something harder.
the first kiss of alcohol
pressing its tongue
onto an empty stomach.
the gasp of a freshly opened wound.
i don't need your pain
to make me feel worth it.
i have a favorite scar
and it is not from you.
need your hurt
to make me
kill_joyshe wears windows on her wrists to hide that hard-earned necklace of bone and cover every angle kissed by an angel on her wretched, ruined, beautiful body.
she is afraid for her soul.
the monsters at night breathe life into her sorry bones, that thin ribbed frame
a skeleton with fingers, a gun with skin.
you tell her, i need you to make me feel better about myself. she says, i could never kill myself til i was something perfect.
you are a match made in heaven: dead.
you spend hours drawing her -- you're an artist, you tell her. really, the only art you know is the lines of her spine, the hollows between her ribs, the lone, thick flesh of her lips, the fragility of her hair. the only thing that hurts is the way she never eats.
why, you ask her. it hurts, she says.
does it really hurt so much you have to starve yourself?
yes, it does.
it never got further than that. by then, your fingers let go of the charcoal and deepene
'til deathit occurs to me that maybe i will grow up and get divorced. i will love you as long as i can and eventually, we will wake up and not love each other anymore. i guess it won't happen overnight but it sure as hell will be intolerable one day.
our kids will be grown. they will be surprised because they often saw us drunk together at family functions and honestly staring into each other's eyes. and they sometimes heard us having sex. and they found the love letters i wrote to you in high school. i will be brushing my teeth and you will be smoking a cigarette and then we will be looking at each other in the mirror. i rinse my mouth out and look up at you.
'how long has is been since we had sex?'
'how long has it been since you had sex?'
'how long has it been since we made love?'
'jesus, at least five years.'
i will smile at you and fix your hair, take a long drag on your cigarette and say, 'i can't believe i married you. you are one boring son of bitch. i'll
this is half-hearted living.i know i'm going to have to say goodbye soon. and i can't stand it. i won't even think of it outside the confines of this sentence and the sinking feeling I get anytime i'm driving too fast just to get away from this place. these four walls have left me feeling more alone than i ever expected. mostly because this house feels empty. even when everyone is here and even when i can't think because of all the yelling pulsating down the hallways, it's unspeakably hollow. i know it's because this place isn't home anymore. since home is a person and i lost that. i'm not where i'm supposed to be. i'm not with who i'm supposed to be. and i'm not who i'm supposed to be.
but most of all, i don't know where i belong.
sometimes, when it's late and i can't sleep, i replay the things i miss the most behind my closed eyelids. everything is about you or someone else who is just as gone. these are the things i do to myself when i'm too tired to fight anymore. too tired to even move. too tired to not thin
second chances don't fit here.i never feel colder
than when i'm talking to you.
i don't know what this says about us.
but i know that i worry about the way
you complicate something as simple as
the beating of my heart. i don't think
i love you. not yet. not since. not
ever but maybe that's just the strong
sense of denial i've built up in the
past few months. i don't think i'll be
okay. not now. not really. not quite.
maybe you were good for me once
but you're no good for me now.
i often wonder what would happen if i
stopped speaking for awhile since all
my words ever do is make a mess out of
things that should be easy. the thing is
that when i'm happy i let myself write
a better story than what i have. i get
carried away and i make believe myself
to be a more lovable character than i'll
ever be. but this isn't fiction and the
fact is sometimes all we get is one
perfect moment. my moment was you.
but darling, when it's over, it's over.
there are no chances left. not anymore.
i don't really think i'm hopeless even
not a love poem.I'm not going to write about plucking
petals off of lifelines
or your cinnamon irises that
i g n i t e behind fluttered lids
I'm not going to write about paper-clip cardiac muscles
bursting through my thorax
or your smiles lines
(which I memorized from left to right)
I'm not going to write about inconsequential movie scenes
stored in the front corner of my brain that
won't stop playing on repeat
I'm going to write about the charcoal contours
painted beneath your eyes
every grapefruit dawn as clouds illuminate
belt-buckles and (tear)stained pillows
I'm going to write about worrylines and
our bitter birdsongs that
bounce off each other
like hymns ending on an imperfect cadence
I'm going to write about a ghost of faerie dust and
jittered beats as you
p r o m i s e me needs that surpass cigarette butts
and shiny new hair
(Everything's fine as long as I have pretty hair)
I'm not going to write about littered endearments
baby, i'm a catastrophe.i remember.
i remember being pulled to you
like there was some sort of
invisible force acting between us.
tying me to you.
maybe you had an addictive personality
and i wasn't strong enough to resist.
that was the beginning.
the middle was just lost.
who i was was gone before
you really got to know her.
and you--you were changing.
maybe i was changing you and
it was so so wrong
but i convinced myself not to care.
it was like a star flickering out.
but still too beautiful
the ending was more like
a comet crashing into the sun.
Here and then gone.
and now after all of this,
the only thing left to say is
that if you can forget me
as if there's no gravity
then you're doing the right thing.
i would never blame you.
this mistake isn't beautiful.My biggest mistake was ever pretending I was special.
When a perfect moment goes to your head, it seems to be so much more than you ever imagined. Finally, the feelings are less lonely. You find that all of your sharp edges and emptiness are smoothed over and filled by someone else's words. You actually feel safe in this person's arms after a lifetime of being too afraid to get close. So when everyone tells you this is love, you believe them.
Suddenly, you can't do anything without it being completely consumed by them. Maybe this is completely unhealthytotally wrong, but all you know is now it seems like unraveling this one individual person from the strings of your thoughts would be completely impossible without your entire mind coming undone. Understandthis is why I've gone crazy.
It's also the reason my second biggest mistake is thinking too much.
I do most of my living inside my head these days. Sometimes, when I wake up in the morning, I need to remind myself that I'm
tremorscurled over a porcelain mouth, i let my dinner fall out.
it's 9:33 p.m. and i think about saturday,
when rain hit the pavement like firecrackers,
the sky darker than the shadows behind the shower curtain.
i know there's a spider burrowed between those plastic folds.
funny thing about deep spaces; they feel better
when they're stuffed full. i think about how your fingertips
made my skin feel soft and breakable, how your tongue was warm,
about how my legs wouldn't stop shaking and you laughed, whispering,
well, there's this experience known as an aftershock.
hands clutching cold tile, water coming in spurts
from the faucet, i pretend that no one can hear me and bend my spine.
my thighs are still splotchy and red from bathing and jade green bruises
polka-dot my kneecaps.
sometimes i do things i don't think i should.
i've gotten used to
we have the softest heartbeatsi don't know what it means when you say
you don't know what i mean.
the implications of my every sentence stain the
atmosphere like neon lights and i'm left wondering
how you can still be so clueless. how after
all this time. after all the sentences we traded
with each other. after every minute that makes
the miles smaller. you still don't get it. how
you could still not get me.
this is the part where i need to remind myself
that you were never mine.
you've never been anyone's because there isn't
a sentence simple enough to make you stay so
three words and eight letters won't leave you
breathless in between my bed sheets. it won't make
you feel the same. and there isn't an idea complex
enough to make you stumble into love, because
to figure out that the world is so much more than
black and white would be admitting you've been
wrong all along.
we're not the people we once were, but maybe our
expectations are far too high.
i only have nonsense.the tip of my tongue has never tasted a tragedy quite like you.
by now, i should know better than to do these things. but i don't.
so i will. the only sense of right and wrong i have anymore is
trapped between the edge of my teeth and the curve of your lips
and i'm losing it. fast.
not all of us spark when we kiss, but you've started the fire that's
raging down my spinal column and through my heart. i'm burning and
it hurts everywhere. i still can't bring myself to mind because at
least this way, i still get to feel something.
last night i promised myself that i would never say another word i didn't mean.
so hopefully, the next time i say i'm not in love i'll mean it. because
i can't take another minute of watching you fade in and out of my life
when i'm just ashes on your fingertips.
i remember when i wanted you to completely destroy me and then put me
back together, but you only ever got halfway there. my heart still skips
beats even after it's been burned and i still fall asleep alo
with love.my throat thickens
to echo the songs of sparrows
the shape of your lips
whispered through mine.
when i lift your shirt,
i see the mountains
traipsing over your heart,
i see the valleys
as i trace your stomach.
i am an adventurer,
crossing the fragile east indies,
the spartan deserts of upper africa,
looking for exploration.
my hands are my ships, your skin my ocean.
your waist breaks into your hip,
the shore of foreign lands,
cresting wave and falling tide.
drinking cups of stars,
we are thin nylon skin,
abashed teenage heat
erupting from our cores
and every orifice
as we proclaim our love
for the moon,
from our bodies.
a hospital bird with soot in her lungsshe slept through a car crash
that almost killed her,
through whitewhite walls
where her lover dies
nobody thought she'd make it
but she woke up a few months later
with flowers in her hair
and ash in her airway
trying to remember how to start all over
but forgetting to remember how to live.
fall slipped from her open eyes
and winter crawled in for a long hibernation
to her the clouds looked sick
and pale like they might
let everything inside them out,
but she opened up wide instead,
spilling blood where there was none to be spilled.
her heart slipped down the street
and with unsteady hands
she stitched in a bird and cut off its wings.
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