rubber feelingand you...rubber feeling by breathingglassstars
succubus tongue, thistle jaw,
you break teeth
in, lashes straight rods
fanning outward, forehead drawing
lines to match mine.
gazing, looking for the answer
to whether you feel me
between your lungs somewhere.
i want to grow big in that warm glow
you splash from your pupils
but my eyes grow dim, distant,
paling, bothered by shade, small,
wishing for enough space inside my
cavern walls, wet caves, bat-filled.
the ghosts of another's fingers crest
the notches of your backbone still--
she's here, even when i prove i'm here.
i'm here, begging "look in me"
and find exactly what you're fishing
for; battered girl on tile floor,
imagined bleach stains,
pale blood eyes and damp smell.
you will discover me soon,
understand behind wide-eyed
tenderness i am
weepy, crooked, desperate
for a thing called "love"--
that limp word i carried
in summer like a dead carcass
in my arms--
back before i knew your name.
old oak eyes
before a ne
backwardswe're back in delicate city drinking raspberry lattes like it's summer and nothing ever happened. your mother let you come outside to smell the yellow-colored roses in shop windows and reflect over the glazed smell of baking in the morning. she doesn't know i'm here. we sit on benches and chain smoke virginia slims like pastors' wives.backwards by breathingglassstars
"where've you been?" i ask you.
"busy, i guess. hardly seeing anyone. but look, i'm progressing. i want you to know that."
raspberry, sticky-sweet, drips down our throats. it's been forever, lifetimes almost, since you first turned on me, tried hitting me like i was the reason you were suffering. the flash of your red-flamed face looms in memory. my heartbeats run faster.
"what did they do to you?"
"gave me lots of sedatives. took me into rooms when i got too riled up about something. calmed me down by zonking me out into this half-sleeping state all the time. it worked, i guess. i don't feel so much anymore. nothing gets through. but look, look, i am...
coals die downquite mysterious, i'mcoals die down by breathingglassstars
suddenly driven mad by
the harsh lines of your brow bone
and the shelf of your collarbone.
on wednesdays, i wake up
over you like dead water
sticky with mosquitoes on those
moonless nights when we're
conscious of penetrating darkness,
when our whispers mix and we're
forced into oblivion selected
by celestial cycles. sleep.
so i wander to your eyelids
and let my gaze sweep like full-moon
hands and fall back asleep, lifted
up by the drawing of your breath.
i am growing oldfinding sequences of afternoons where i'mi am growing old by breathingglassstars
fumbling around in a dark gray room
trying to uncover pathways never
opened in me, grown from patches
of organic cells to give me home,
let other people waste me away on
summer sunday, 3 p.m. when nothing's happening.
i try to explore cavities, opening
myself up for light to burn and allow
nostalgia to weep from empty wounds
almost like tears or rain.
and then all the pieces of me
will evaporate cleanly like freckles
lifted from skin after winter shows.
i peel myself from cold tiles
covered in daisies, i remind myself
of the way bodies should work
like machines in the nighttime
and docile animals in the morning
when the sun won't stop for anyone.
we don't remember the passage
of time as each second wastes,
forgotten, another moment gone
as it blooms inside my head and dies,
this action, this moment before the dark
with lights carelessly going out,
has meaning only to me, for
moments leave me powerless, whimpering
morningssunday.mornings by aprilwednesday
the croissant crumbles in my fingers
buttery flakes drift towards mismatched
and your lips are stained with
sleep clings to your eyes
like a shadow
and i watch you breathe, while
i trace your collarbone with
we wake before the alarm
and count how many times the
neighbor's dog barks
before she finally lets him in.
your soft laugh blends perfectly into
the early morning sun.
your fingers trace the curve
of my spine
the old window rattles
in the wind
and i press my cold toes against your leg.
i mumble how the faded, flowery wallpaper
looks pretty in the sun.
you tell me i look prettier.
i tickle your cheek with my eyelashes
and make my fingers do
off your nose
and wonder out loud why
the room smells like oranges
[you tell me you ate some
for a midnight snack.]
gracehannah watches the end of the day flicker like a dying pulse, she feels blood vessels constrict and thinks of ships stretching the tether to home until it snaps. she wipes sweaty palms on bare thighs and and wonders how anyone could possibly fall in love with her--after all, she is not beautiful, she is not the type of person who can win a heart or even turn a head.grace by BellaPotter
sometimes, hannah finds herself aching and she does not know why. she is not cut up or battered, her skin is sprinkled with freckles intead of bruises; her bones are straight and whole and smooth. all the same, she wakes up and she is in pain, her chest hurts and her fingers are trembling as she brushes her teeth. her hair looks bleached and torn, her eyes flat and her lips chapped and raw.
what, she wonders, is wrong with you?
hannah is not afraid of being sick, like so many people are. she is just worried about all the times she did not write, all the times she did not kiss that waiter at the olive garden or
musingwe were the stolen warmthmusing by IgnitionInStars
of winter come too soon,
sunlight faded welcoming eyelashes,
you turn away shivering tender bones
and i cry.
seven weeks gone by;
black dogs howl in the night.
you completed me
you defeated me.
i ask the wind why,
it only replies with the chilling
of stiffened muscles
on this empty, lone autumn day.
but wind does not reply
as it has always been quick to move on
and leave whispers in the dust.
left with colors of urgency
time echoes the blatant truth:
i must let you go.