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prisoner 2873.she grabbed my hands
and wrapped them around her waist,
making me slow-dance with her
right there on the boulevard
in the pouring rain.
it's on her bucket list,
to be a scene in a movie.
this is the opening credit.
baby, she said, let me tell you something.
i've got a fist full of dreams and a guitar pick in my pocket
and a head full of you.
that don't sound much like living to me, baby.
run away with me
and let's make a life.
she blinked raindrops off her eyelashes
and looked at me with melting brown eyes.
baby, she said, come with me?
how could i say no?
she squealed and kissed me in the pool of golden light
under the lamppost on the boulevard.
we were two silly girls twined around each other and drunk on love.
we'd make a perfect movie, i think,
she told me. and i guess we would.
hollywood would love this story.
six months living on the road,
just two kids living the rebel dream.
we drove across the country,
jessie headbanging to the soundtrack of the 80's
and rocking the
three sentences, double-spaced.sitting here as my sister cries in the next room
I'm taken with the overwhelming urge to laugh.
though her problems seem as real to her as mine do to me
(the only pain her eleven-year-old wisdom knows is not wanting to do her homework)
as I hear her anguish over one paragraph
I realize just how petty all of us can be.
hypocritical kiss she wondered if she was a masochist for
loving this boy who obviously
had better things to do like
he sat in his bedroom with a bottle of
advil and wondered
if he should swallow the entire thing
because hatred breeds hatred-
ever since he was bullied in seventh grade
he'd hated himself, he told
her. he'd figured
since they hated him he ought to hate himself.
sometimes he wished things
had turned out differently and
he and the girl could live
happily ever after.
she wondered if he'd be dead
in the morning
if he was dead right now
so she texted him and told him everything.
he wondered how long the girl
had been a masochist
because anyone who runs a blade
down her hip repeatedly
she knew she needed help
but hearing it from her suicidal boyfriend
love poemmy eyes are full of memories
my mind is full of tears
in hindsight i can see that only words can stop my fears
every single step i take
reminds me what went wrong
at the corner of depression and another wasted song
what the hell does laughing do
if laughter heals all wounds
when the only laughing that I know is aimed at me from you
I sometimes wish to end it all
just save up all my pills
then I remember clear nights and never ending blue.
I will someday float away
no doubt you will too
but in the meantime lets just bust out of these prison walls.
please.how many late nights and early mornings have i spent
watching cups of coffee while drinking the sunrise?
i don't know, darling, sorry, but
i was too busy reading and re-reading the bookmarked distance in your eyes.
i feel lonelier now that you're only twenty miles away.
sometimes i wish you could go away again
so i can always look forward to seeing you.
because darling, i know you think this boy is the one
but you've been wrong before, and you haven't even given me a chance yet.
through songs, words, looks, how i tremble when we touch,
i have made it clear what i feel for you
and that i am drowning in this insane ocean of discordant music.
.worry infects my blood and drips from my lips,
forgetting how to be calm in my lying mouth.
where will all this deception lead?
to the sea, to a tall building, to a knife, to a mouth full of pills?
you breathe in the scent of my sadness
from tens of thousands of sighs and tears and miles away.
every time you pop up in my mind
i think please! just let me die now
because it hurts, darling. missing you hurts
even though you're coming back.
my mother listens outside my door with crimson eyes,
forgetting that it's not her fault.
fluid.i always thought i was a freak
because what's between my legs
doesn't match up with what's in my mind.
then i realized you felt the same way about yourself
and i realized that we are almost two sides of the same coin.
Endlessi could talk to you
until my throat bled
from all the sharp corners
of every word
and i'd listen to your voice
until the sun
circles the moon.
and then some
why we pity angelsto him;
you are afraid of phonecalls. you
are afraid of your own voice, and
opening your ribcage to let
your heart come live on your sleeve.
you are afraid of living without caffeine
or alcohol, whatever the day calls for;
you are afraid of being real
without laughing afterwards, becoming
everything you worked so hard to get
away from, acknowledging all
that you still are. know this:
I am afraid of loud noises.
I am afraid of honesty and drowning,
people I don’t know and words
I won’t say. I am afraid
of growing old and living alone and
you not accepting me. I am afraid
of myself. In that, we are the same.
I have the compulsion to grab you
and cup you to me like you are some
half-alive bird, like that sound
as the lazy sun paints you a portrait is
your hummingbird heart and not my own
shallow breaths. in the beginning,
you were my peace of mind. you traced
the contours of my being with a scalpel
and held me up, a shadow puppet,
as the darkest, blackest figures I gav
we're all drunk and always have beenno
i haven't felt smaller than this before
and it could be
because i don't breathe poetry in
and out -
and out -
i write it under my eyebrows
with the precision
of a drunk sniper
toasted into admission
with irony s-st-tutter-ering
down his throat.
you wouldn't take a damned bullet for me.
beautiful is a word kept
for the rise
of her tidal chest,
not my shallow breath,
not my sunset, heartfelt,
i would have disappeared
between your accusing index and
neglected thumb -
don't you feel calmer?
i haven't felt smaller than this
i haven't felt smaller than this before
and it could be
because you found a home between
her stroking index and
comforting thumb -
i haven't forgotten,
no, i still remember
now twenty two penumbrae in the past
didn't stop me
in one of several crevasses
at the bottom of your oceanic mind;
you may have forgotten,
and slept in
on the details,
but i haven't,
by the skin of your teethsometimes it's not that
i miss you directly, but
when i hear a cross-stitched
string of words tumble out
of someone else's mouth,
i think about your voice
saying it and how you would
have perhaps worded it
differently, or raised your
eyebrows on a different
syllable, or -
I fell from the sky when I tried to kill god.I gathered wild grief stricken boys
And stored them in glass jars
Their moon shine eyes hooded,
Under the train tracks red light glow
Much like the local strip of neon slit sidewalks.
I realized I was not so much the Doreen in my queer little life
So much as I was Esther.
When I’d take slugs of cheap wine whilst reading the classics
And writing obscure essays and analysing dead poets
Licking the burgundy liquid from my wrists
And mopping up the spilled ink
With my frayed sleeves.
The autumn air smells of rot and I can’t help but reminisce
About bonfires in old abandoned warehouses
Where we’d run across open fields that split the sky
Open and twisted it into
Something like a looking glass
Except there’s no fire in your eyes.
Just watered down sonnets about girls who work at diners
For minimum wage, who get into cheap bars,
And drink martinis with rich business men.
Maybe we were born to be the lost generation
Or maybe silver linings
Are just the silver refract
the last poem to my firsti.
you always touched me carefully,
running your light fingers over my shaking hips
as if i were a fragile thing
(to be protected instead of loved)
but in the end
you broke me
you always said you didn't know how you felt about me
but the loneliness in your trailing fingertips
told me all i needed to hear.
how many "i love you"s have drowned
in the uncertainty behind your eyelids?
how many kisses have died
in the doubt i tasted on your tongue?
new years day i woke up in your bed
alone with a headache
and a house of cards in my mind.
you pushed it over the first time you breathed into my ear that morning
whispering you loved me
as if it were a secret
as if i were a secret
we were broken things together
crazy things together
driven insane and driving insane
desperate and deserted
but you can't build a relationship
out of mutual loneliness.
never give yourself to an artist
because you miss writing love poems.
but someday i'll miss you.
inspiration suckles in cancer and labworkhave you been writing lately?
have you written about the effervescence
spitting up at the surface when you
reach a cadence and still run out of
places to keep your shrouded letters,
all inked and stamped - ready
to arrive everywhere with no return
have you written about a death in the family
and how it plucked each of your villi
till it knotted into a lit-metaphoric
metastasized at your throat, so
apparent it made you choke
on each correct pronunciation
till you lied your diction ways
into another midnight?
have you written about bleeding out
and stitching your wounds
only to see if you could do the same
for another aching Faiz? tell me, have you written
without sweating over what-word-to-use,
have you written about the salts
precipitated to insolubility and sprinkled
into the headache you've been feeding
with your restlessn
to be a waste of grey matter with no self-esteemforgive these
rorschach nerves &
mercury veins -
i am no tragedy boy,
but i have self-decay
down to an art.
this tar tongue only starts
marlboro conversations &
i only start fires.
My ReflectionMy reflection
Oh, how I hate that mirror
Please break it down
The nights I stand gazing,
I'm on my knees, begging you please
I don't want to look anymore...
No, I don't want to see
Ghost staring back at me
Driving me to insanity
Stuck in between…
Glass and false reflections
Taking over me
Even I don't recognize myself
I don’t know the person staring at me
I know it’s me
CAN’T YOU SEE!
I’M IN TOO DEEP!
This feeling, itches….
Down inside flesh and bone
Why do you laugh, when I cry?
Why did I do the things you told me to?
You reflect back at me
I know what my eyes cannot see
I will never be free
My arm still burns
Cuts and bruises covered me
Just thinking of it
Gives me a rush
'Maybe two more pounds less
You will look and feel much better'
I know it is wrong
I try not to follow along
But I’m not always strong
I always need more ,
More to feel better
I can't necessarily blame you
When it is me...
I am y
razor-sharp shakespeare.dear boy:
right now a girl is
remembering too many painful conversations
about why exactly she is
stripping the feathers from her wings with sharp-edged poetry
and watching the slashes bleed words.
right now a girl is
brainstorming what she could have done better
and doing exactly the opposite
for wounded wings breed perversity.
and who knows, maybe that girl is
also thinking about the aquamarine eyes
that tempted her to flit higher
until her wings remembered they're raw and broken
then snapped and let her fall like icarus into a stormy sea.
and it's a sure thing that that girl limps home later
and reads Shakespeare with a razor blade as a bookmark.
my dear boy,
please keep a better eye on her in the future.
if there is one.
IronmanHear me read it
My friends used to call William "Ironman" because the first time we kissed he got a nosebleed and the taste of his blood haunted me for a long time after it. We'd only been twelve years old and apparently the anxiety spiked his blood pressure to the point of combustion... I remember that when we were forced to take sex ed a few years later we were divided into separate classes for boys and girls, in case a diagram of an ovary was too risqué and we became animalistic and started clawing at each other in our seats, but nonetheless when our teacher Ms Jacobs had explained to us what an erection was in my mind all I could picture was the blood rushing to his nose and then the slash of cranberry across my blouse.
With the idea planted in his mind it didn't take long for William's hands to start wandering, but the image persisted. Every time I thought about just letting it happen I wondered what would happen if he got too excite
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scheinbar is a much-loved and well-known deviant. Just one look at her gallery, filled with enchanting photography, will have you mesmerized. A deviant for over 7 years, Christiane can always be found posting inspirational features as well as regularly commenting on other deviations and encouraging and empowering her fellow deviants. We are inspired and insist that you too stop by and congratulate ... Read More