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never told youi always drink too much of
this fashionable spring air
but enough isn't me.
gold, god, we climb over
every hill and fall in love
with breaded earth again and again.
i dream of you in payphone
booths when i think of home,
smiling my signal through the chords
hoping it will replace
a lover's flesh.
but sweating all these colors fresh,
oh, it's something to see,
something to me
because we run in empty fields
while you sit cramped inside,
barely pumping the blood around your toes.
come on, darling, you know.
when we drive i sing into memory;
do you remember when i fell
out of your tree? you ran and picked me
up and even though i was seeing stars i
tried on love like a slip
it fit me to fit you.
lover, though the water's where
i'm most alive i miss that
one word, home, for you.
am i just too much?
fever dreams won't be
enough to touch.
miss the waterfalls
all those clouds
during hot weather
i curtsy to the bandits
and play my piano sweet
eating up the world to feel
it in my s
chordiality-where are you tonight?
i stay locked inside my own skin
every second i live.
i take apart the useless blue appendix,
pull it from my mouth,
up throat, out of the solar system
into every me there ever was.
we're always here
for no one cares what the others say
they hate being more than matter
and formula, a perfect equation
always divisible by two, no less.
i am divisible by all the holes
in my jaw, where my smile used to
cradle my face like a bastardized doll.
sewed eyes tweak my skin
with cool wire where all the fenced
unconsecrated ease into my
dolls wouldn't like
this minced play,
they live on the shallow side
of all our smiles.
risks and shreds and stitches
tell me all i'll ever be.
i swear they'll know my
name out loud--
i swear they never, ever will
and i'd fall into the
same grave a thousand times.
i'll die before twenty-five
burnt out, you know
but after the burn the smoke
always fades away
so i synchronize with the
implosionsthe whale ate my hunger
and now i'm a ghost,
pills setting off bombs
in the mine of my body
turning my blood toxic
and bursting the shafts
into a precarious spin.
i'll live in the spaces between
the walls without you
and pretend the stairs don't exist.
you're a tunnel behind my eyes
and it is starting to block my vision
between breaths and false eyelashes
sweat is not sweet and i'd like
you to stop
couldn't you tell me which road?
the signs are read backwards and i might be going blind today.
crowned with my own broken chair
i take the graveled road spelling east.
i might be beautiful today.
the pills you've eaten
don't really love you
and they do abhor tracing the
train tracks on the inside
of your hollow throat
can't you see?
the whale left me in the
stomach of the ocean
and i can't swim with
pills lathering me
space is skinnyhe sketches rows of skin cells
in a shade of dead blue,
his mind glued to an empty field
that sleeps on the underside
of the sky's thighs.
there are bones of dead lovers
sewn to his chest,
the sole way to keep the
essence of the world trapped
to feel his heart beat
makes them fall in love.
he knows that all lovers must
be sewn together,
merging paths of the skin in
a miniscule puzzle of sweat
each membrane an atmosphere
to the bumpy planets
and crashing meteors
of passing dust specks,
thrown out of orbit and
looking for their mothers.
the air's children.
the children of wide empty space.
blue because when everything dies,
it rots bluest of all.
blue in the absence of
blue for the marrow
of his lover's bones
when directed by the light of the night.
his sketches are never real.
they depict something never seen,
they create his imaginary womb,
each one an unborn thought,
an unborn experience.
nine if them survive the toug
a laugh will cost you--have you seen the girl with the sad, cold eyes
and down-turned mouth? she's always in a frown, a coma of malleable lips pushed like clay. perhaps they were formed by the phantoms behind her teeth, or the myths drowning in her wet mouth. they say she has evil eyes. stained ones.
i talked to her one dark morning when she sat writing letters into a wood desk. i said, "hi." and she looked at me and turned away. so did i. the next day she walked up to me out of nowhere and she said, "you're weak." and then she smiled real crooked, a poison kind of smile. she told me stories about broken love and the snakes under her skin instead of blood. she's their cocoon and they're too afraid to shed her off. a writhing, rocky heart ate away at her insides, giving the snakes something to eat, she told me. that was why she was too skinny and pale-blooded. cold-blooded. zero-blooded.
she made the most gruesome jokes, too. i couldn't tell you 'cause i forgot them all but she did. and i always wa
trespassing slipthe soul is numbered into a cohesive pattern. graphed for the mathematical masterminds and swallowed by the sea. it is drawn on earth-colored paper and taped to backs; for no one has the right to see their soul or steal it, just to roll it in mud or take it off when they feel overdressed. she's always overdressed for you but strays, too afraid to slip her hands down, over, off. she replies with tiny licking phrases and sheathes her eyes behind a clear mask. so useless. so so ashamed. to blame. we blame you.
talk is nothing but meal to fill the empty stomachs of air. we make it fat with nonsense and diseased desires. the others are just fifteen and free to dream, so free. free attaches to falling in a revolution of seconds and we are the most captive prisoners of all.
you have sweet dreams of tongues slipping down your throat, of medicine. i live to trail your insides but die to move beyond skin. barriers break our chemicals down to singular strands of written codes read only by nature.
wish i was worth itplease don't need me.
my skin prickles and i shiver
under crowded carpets
i am so
falling over gin mouths
and crystallized fingers
under my eyelids.
you like me to be there
to hurt for you
'cause i'm worth no more than that
and i guess i should say i'm
sorry for letting
you crawl this far under
each little nerve on my
spine but it won't help
i know i'm sorry
am i weak or do you,
do you love me?
can iwill you let me
be more than a tool, an absorber of the
fears falling from your tongue?
i wish i could be more
than one little girl
in a collage of countless others.
i wish you wouldn't
oh i wish you wouldn't
but you persist and now
there are bruises on my
chest, i've taken all the
blows, i can't feel.
i don't love it
i don't love you
please don't need me
(do you love you?)
be swimming through your handsi follow the hum of a steady drum
to mingle with the edges of my heart,
it running races with god in my veins.
i'd race the universe for this feeling.
my hands forget what you feel like--
flesh memories are only skin deep.
i'd love to feel the building of your bones
keeping me sturdy in the air,
humble as bricks.
you swell beneath me in the garden
where flesh grows like weeds
and i can be taller than i feel.
ideologies of you breed along the
space of my throat
you brilliant disease.
you've made me sick
but somehow breathing the cells of you
in makes me thrum against myself--
i am a harp to my desires.
the sounds you make bounce and
shatter in my skin, catching my crooked eyes
staring you through.
i'm a serpent to swim in the
nauseous pool of my thoughts.
wishes whisper in wistful voices
i'll pretend for you as long as i sing
as long as your hand is severed at the wrist,
somehow soldered to my skin.
your fingers twitch,
reverberating in succulent percussion.
i'll miss t
says he loves you too
keeps gallons of glue in his pockets
just in case his heart falls apart.
john makes you pretend for fun
pretend to be people on the streets
who live forever though they fictionally
all lights move abrupt.
says you can be anyone (but you)
even breathes for fun
careless of death in lack of breath.
john always makes you dumb
worthlessnothing when you reply
against the froth of his mind
while you both burn out quick.
you need not one light
'cause the dark is your silent heaven.
says he knows it all
sees when the sky falls miles away
but only sees water in your eyes (never any sky).
john thinks [.] you're okay
even when you're dead hanging by your neck
just as long as you pretend
just as long as he can burn inside you.
when john is around he is every light.
john sends the world to hell
he's too bright or reckless or wild
peeling back your skin.
you're too watery dumb.
lovesong to hunger.imprints of your palm upon my heart. black scabs, blue swell.
hunger again. his palm cups my jaw, fingers only able to reach to my
mouth, ring finger on transparent teeth, pinky blackening
my lower lip. my hair in his mouth, tearing free.
he will tell me about the summer i left behind. it rained;
the television became a gray-lit sound. the stains in the carpet were
coloured like my skin had rubbed off on them. the strangest sounds came
away from the walls if you touched them: my vomit backed
up the sewers. my words swirled from the toilet's porcelain
mouth. i am pale like the porcelain. i kneel to the god. they don't
he tells me about the quiet. strangers crying, snuffling
towards heat, blind as worms. limp animals. women
breastfed the rosycheeked new strangers, crooning, pretending
they knew them so well after nine months of wondering,
of batlike darkness. seventeen years swelled them out,
the limbs ached.
my hands find his throat and wrap close.
he swallows the dense gloom f
she was everyoneshe wrote useless phrases on her wrists and
hipbones because she wanted to be
she would count her ribs under the
sheets wondering what she might do if there was suddenly
one less than the night before.
she wanted to find meaning in the smell of rain
and the darkness of her room but
the only place she found truth was at the bottom
of the beer bottle and the space
between his hands and inside of her thighs.
she was bitter that it was only beer she could stomach -
it seemed she could not even be beautiful in the
destroyed lost sense of the word.
she couldn't get to sleep before
scabs that were prone to bleed appeared on
her knees and feet.
she was afraid of dying then, when she bled and
no one noticed.
she became sick of veiled comparisons, metaphors for
symbols that did not explain what she was seeking.
she wanted to tell someone that when she said
she felt like burning down her house,
it did not mean
i am angry at my parents for raising me poorly and
we went to whitcombwe went to whitcomb; there are
trees like fields of skeletons,
erect with pale spines,
naked to the world.
the west is bitter snow
and indie music
playing through earbuds,
and fragile greens.
frozen weeds stand like the militia
afraid to breathe, straight and
taking orders from the air
as spring begs to be
to this white ocean.
buildings stuck in the past
emerge in sharp color
screaming, o nostalgia!
love me as you did when i was new!
and i find myself screaming the same.
invisible nightmaresDeath is the girl
who's not on the ground.
Her smile is fixed, her hair wild
and perfect, her eyes black.
She's dressed carefully.
You sit down to dinner and this
girl lurks in the corners while she sits at
She licks her fork and scratches the ceiling.
Smiling brilliantly, you hear her nails trembling
The purple thorn in the white bouquet.
Death is the fly breeding in the walls.
There are suddenly hundreds of flies in your
In your hallway,
In your bedroom.
They come up dead from the sink drain,
awash in mucus and blood.
It doesn't make sense, you say,
as the smell slowly slips out of your nose with the
transparent scent of bleach.
Death is the dream, backwards in time
as you dive in the creamy folds of a midnight ocean,
slowly forgetting the taste of air,
slowly reminding yourself that you
might need to go back, and never following
your own advice,
you swallow, you tell yourself to swallow
your fingertips trace constellations that never have
aesthetic amnesia. - collab.if i can't be beautiful, i want to be invisible.
just like the last frames of a movie. the one that carry it on past the last line, all the ones nobody thinks or dreams about, because when it's over, there's nothing else. after the beautiful movie, i'm the forgotten future.
forgetting tastes like blood. you probably know, after all, how your lips were cut open and you can run to the mirror and look--but that tiny pinprick of bloodred shine does not explain the dull, salty taste. that's what forgetting feels like. endless wondering. and then, the dull, all-encompassing fear
that the rest of your life is a blank tape.
blood to remind myself that i'm still here, i'm alive and ripe. i don't ever want to be ripe, i want dry and shrinking into a tiny path of bloodless dust. the way it softens on my lip urges me to run myself through a paper shredder to get rid of it all. i want the thinness of paper, the way it curls and burns and allows millions of hands to circle on its s
quicksilveryou carry the translucence
of another world in your skin,
your fingers trailing vague
I could admit to loving you
only if the sea herself
stopped in her wild, flinging motion
to soak her indolent ivory tips
something red and fervent,
would coil itself around your
stomachedyou blush and bruise
with sidewalks, stones,
the quiet doorways in your thighs
and the weight of your purple
tongue against mine
(a carnival of teeth)
if you swallowed the moon
with your agate jaws,
you could not be more nacreous
sorryundead undone unloved,
all of these words hold
little value to me
fifteen months and little to show for it
i am just as fierce as ever and you are
just as passionless. i used to love you
for your passion and now that it is gone,
i love a shell
if you have ever loved a shell,
you will understand that every
thing you put in it dies.
pretty things make graveshiding leaves beneath my tongue
i circle prey like a whirlpool
and keep lyrics under the stairs
i hear your playful wallows bringing sores
to the roof of your mouth from here
numbers and letters in an epitaph,
mangling sweet stairs.
i wish you wouldn't waltz down here
but you always do, seeing him out
the door and decorating the room
with your smile.
then i imagine all of you blood red
and laugh myself to sleep,
singing like a bird exposed to winter
dreaming of stealing you with
the mouth of the fox,
your staircase body climbing
into my stomach.
your wallows would bubble up
and transform my laughter beautiful
i'd escape to the place beneath the stairs.
in love with all the graves i've set,
i'll never let you free.
Parenting for Sex AddictsThe half-day.
We are not those folks that need an occasion to try. And that’s what they call it, too. Trying. As if the very idea of it is taxing. It’s not taxing and we are not those people.
No. We do not go by some magical calendar. Schedules aren’t really our thing in general. That’d be too organized. Too stuffy. Too… I don’t know… too planned. And we’re not the type of people whom plan.
If we could—plan—our lives would be much different. I think. It’s hard to say because this is how we’ve always been.
Our very togetherness is a result of impulse. I’m almost certain that the amount of time it took us to decide to move in together was significantly shorter than the amount of time it took us to remember each other’s names. We might have had our first conversation moments after that first… what I mean to say is we didn’t plan. Because planning would have been much t
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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