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can't breathe, at least not steadily,
paint me turquoise
or be the forest to my fire,
actually I'd rather you were nothing, at least nothing to me,
now I can feel nightfall coming upon the manifestation of a July moon,
so let's let those clouds burst and rip wide open
just as though the clouds were my organs and
the rain were my blood.
And I will Always be the MoonWe have gotten so attached to these days and these months,
but a deer doesn't know a Tuesday from a Thursday
and a caribou can't comprehend that it was born on a September afternoon,
but they can understand this instant, this moment, this breath,
only now, no longer the past, and only the future when they get there,
there's a healthy lack of awareness in that,
escaping the fear of death but thriving off the instinct to live,
everything so primal and based off gut reactions,
I guess you could say ignorance is bliss,
but ignorance only actually applies when it comes to humanity,
oh I would like a life like that,
one that is organic, tangible, and ripe with bloody berries,
one where carnal creatures run rampant,
one where we rise from the dirt with muddy thighs
because we were bred into these earthly bodies
to hold seconds in our palms like newborn children,
and to throw our heads back and howl against the awareness that we are dying,
for oh this skin is only our host,
The FuneralHolding hands,
throwing roses over a pearlescent casket
bathed in baby pink,
who knew death could be so feminine,
but funeral hymns plague the fragile air
while the graveyard is soaking up mournful stares,
maybe a few glances of relief are exchanged like drug money,
I look around and realize how everyone looks so alive
when we are surrounded by fatality,
translucent tears spill over flushed faces,
sunken eyes mirror hollow smiles
as the reapers cling to our backs like sloths
and everything feels slow,
everything falls stagnant,
then we drink from the goblet of faith and hope
and we get drunk off the elixir of life,
the fog clears
and our skin burns gold as the sun rises against our withered hides,
we can still feel the warmth which means we must still be alive,
so we don't move on but we do move forward
with our ancestors ghosts living within our hearts,
whispering in our ears,
and guiding us into the light.
The Art of ForestryIf it were only appropriate to speak
of a single touch, of what it means,
of what it feels.
Our forearms graze and so I hold very still,
I never want to lose a second of
you against me.
My entire being shivers along the
shores of your skin
and all of my nerve endings are electrified
when I imagine our relationship evolving into
lilac limbs, freshly kissed lips, and
lieing next to you on rainforest floors.
We create a completely nuclear reaction,
a mixture of fusion, friction, and fascination.
So believe me when I say, oh boy I love you,
I really do,
yes, I want you so,
closer than tires upon pavement,
and like a car you turn into me,
and like a car you take me places,
you even take my daydreams to extraordinary realms
where I wake in the midst of the woods,
the air is slick and crisp
and I can feel your muddy, autumn hands
dancing along my flaking, fir tree flesh,
the dirt runs damp between our toes
and we become nothing but creatures of the forest;
living off each other's lo
helium balloon lungsi. You write me notes scribbled on sandpaper
and I run them across my face,
scraping away layers of saccharine skin,
ii. Your eyes, made of cookie crumbs,
I'd like to dip them in milk
and watch them melt,
smoking like dry ice,
iii. You churn my childish heart
in circles and in circles
till I slip into cardiac arrest,
iv. I just remembered that time you
wrapped your arms around me like vines
and held me until you couldn't,
v. Oh what I'd give for a pair of
fortune cookie lungs,
exhaling self-fulfilling prophecy,
vi. I've been fishing for horoscopes,
pasting them onto my bedroom walls
and on the backside of my skin,
hoping that they tell me that
today is the day you will be mine,
vii. But your soul is made up of sins
and I do believe in forgiveness,
but forgive me, for I cannot forget.
i am a book of blank pages.We're playing that game where we trace letters on each others backs with the ends of our fingers. So I drag my fingertips down your spine slowly, savoring every embrace. I'm drawing electric currents through each vertebrae and I can feel you twitch under my touch.
I'd like to hold your ribcage like guitar strings and play chords that echo beneath your skin. You'd sound like a long, soft lullaby that tugs at my eyelids to close so I can dream.
My dreams are the only place we can actually be together, my subconscious takes control
and it's your lampshade lips along the shadows of my feet,
then I'm spilling my shoulders like chandeliers onto your carcass
and I'm drinking in this surreal moment like wine, because it is so bittersweet.
In my conscious mind I'm lying awake at night with toothpicks propping open my eyelids
because days are tasting like stale bread and empty space
and I'm realizing that space might actually be what we need,
screw that, what we need is each other and I need you
you are my careful ghosti. The air is thick and I'm drinking you in like sunlight through a silver straw,
I'm feeling like my spine has come unzipped and my crayola red innards have become exposed to the cool air,
you're like the slivers in my fingers that I can't pull out,
maybe I should try scraping off layers of skin with tweezers,
goodbye dead cells, hello fresh meat,
damn, why are you so fresh as fuck.
ii. A whirlpool has developed beneath my chest so there goes my sense of sanity,
actually it's more like boiling water, bubbling, spewing out passed my eyes,
and all I've been asking for is for you to either take me or let me go,
let's be honest, I could try to say I am over this whole thing
but I'm not and I don't even want to be.
iii. So let's forget the world,
get lost in each others skin,
tracing ribs like jail bars,
running hands over heartbeats,
brushing lips with lonely aches.
i want you because i shouldn't want you at alli want you like i want succulent strawberries dripping over a white lacy dress,
i want you like i want complete silence on a sweltering august night,
i want you like it's dead rats melting over hot gutters and then it's your hot guts on my body.
i want you and your collarbones tied to my strings of saliva,
i want you smelling like you're some wild wolverine with incisors as sharp as rose petals,
i want you broken and bleeding just so i can nourish your wounds.
i want you dangerously close and always so,
i want you angry as you are passionate,
i want you in ways i don't even understand.
HallucinationsHe buries his head in the neck of a girl, who smells of flowers,
her aroma plagues his inhalations
like the smoke of weeping willow trees,
now as he exhales, he exhales kisses into
the long unending lines curving around her eyes like crescent moons,
for she is but a shy reflection of the sun
and he holds onto her like a shadow;
grasping at clouds with the outline of her silhouette,
using her as a tube of Vaseline, placing her over his eyes at night,
oh but then the daylight washes over him like bathwater,
waking him into a crisp clean air
where she cannot rid him of his wrinkles or internal emptiness,
because she only comes to life in the space where the subconscious reigns,
so he continues to live beneath layers of illusions,
building daydreams like skyscrapers,
breathing simply to sleep.
I miss you, and i can't say i'm sorry
because these slender, spider fingers
ache to trace the curved letters of your name tag,
emily. i notice you write everything in caps.
( have i ever told you
how much i enjoy saying your name, -EMILY. )
you are screaming to the world, quietly.
but we, we are mid-morning whispers
over stale, back room coffee,
silent eyes, and window pane love.
these hearts were runaways once;
hitchhikers on a trail to nowhere.
you shared pieces of yourself with me then,
emily, between beats and bathroom stalls.
you were a gargoyle under the heat
of july summer. evenings were our playground;
rose garden beasts lingering in feverish night.
So I amI feel dead
and the tree outside my window,
says I am,
so I must be.
I like lillies to bloom in winter
and for the sun to live in the clouds,
so as not to burn my skin
or leave me in the cold.
This morning I forgot to breathe,
as I woke up, I choked.
It was not unpleasent,
I was just surprised.
You could not feel the moisture
on my face
as it began to rain because,
I feel dry
and the weatherman said it was,
so it must have been,
so I am.
the little things.The night caves in.
there are no more pretty words on my lips.
the stars fall like planes in a tailspin.
and there is no more beauty in my pen,
only the self-loathing that shadows my mind and the blade on my skin.
and he's seafoam in the drain,
as out of place here as the seashells inhabiting the dresser in my room.
its not poetry anymore,
and the pain in my chest is so real i can taste it like cold steel.
his toes at the edge of the precipice as he burns the night down. your lungs are filled with flour and your eyes with ashes.
its the little things that break you.
so i'll swallow the emptiness inside like a bitter medicine. bite my cheeks until they bleed out my insecurities. i'm rotting from the inside out, but i can't let them know it.
too afraid if i set the rot free it will destroy me completely.
but maybe its already destroyed me.
the acid in my veins has laid me bare and defenseless. the bile and unborn words in my che
Lightyears at SeaHis whispered goodbyes caught fire
in the whites of her eyes as wild dogs
and empty oceans devoured him.
Standing still for years, she with
a waiting heart and waiting fingers
gave birth to ghosts with feathers.
Haunting in his sleep, swinging like
sharp jewelry and pendulums
carving cryptic messages upon his floor-
'You, with your tattooed baptism skin
and slithering tongue of sweet poison
left her aching ashes to mix with gunpowder.'
I used to miss her, but I used to do many things.I used to trace lines from the tip of her toes to the crook of her neck, and paint her tummy with my tongue. I used to fold her bones between my fingers and keep them hidden in my pocket. I used to build her castles from blankets and unspoken wishes inside of which we could entangle our limbs and breathe each other's breath.
But one day she was gone,
I woke up with an empty space between my arms where she used to be. I woke up with her voice in the back of my head and her scent between my fingers. I woke up searching for her, chasing her footprints over my skin to find that they skipped from my left hipbone onto the mattress and down onto the floor and out of my room and into the world.
I used to miss her. I used to miss the conversations we didn't have, sitting wordlessly besides each other, asking questions with our fingertips, answering them with our lips, or eyes, or kneecaps. I used to miss chasing futures together, and exchanging body parts, and smelting the ends of our nerves to
the willowy girl and the secret keeper"I think there were skeletons? Yeah, they were dancing around a fire. And there were weird demon things with horns. And it smelled like smoke and trees and spices."
"You can smell things in your dreams?"
"Of course." She tilted her head, frowning at him. "You can't?"
"I don't think anyone can. I don't think that's even possible."
"It is. It definitely is."
"You might be crazy."
She exhaled sharply, her face twisting into a terrible imitation of anger. "I think you're just jealous."
"Is that so?"
"Mmhm," she nodded, confident in her assessment. "Because I get these intricate, beautiful dreams, and yours are just boring. Boring, boring, boring."
He stared at her, a secret smile playing on his lips. He wanted to tell her that she was the most beautiful person he'd ever seen; that she made his blood feel electric; that if his dreams were as intricate as hers, he'd smell her lilac perfume, stare into her stormy eyes, take her on dreamland adventures. He wanted to tell her that her lips were
the ocean doesn't comfort me like it shouldthe water looked like angry
hands, clawing at the sand
and the wind screamed
like an angry voice i couldn't hear
and the seagulls didn't dare
and my lungs, i think,
froze a little bit
because the stormy sea and
the screaming wind and your voice
the desperate waves
and your fingers
i went to the ocean the day you left
and all i could see was you.
let's embrace silence and dance"I don't want to talk."
do you remember our friendship? you were my best friend, you know that. we used the sticky, summer sand to have snowball fights by the water, because we both knew it would never snow in the heat. oh, and that sand hurt, but we laughed through the pain. I guess pain is meaningless when you're seven. at night we wandered down the pier and chased the lightning bugs in and out of the tide. if we were lucky enough, we could catch one. your luck was always better than mine. lighting up the shore, we kept them in jars and placed them in a circle. I gave you my grandmother's bracelet, kissed you on the cheek, blushed, and told you the gift would remind you that someone always loves you. we stayed out there all night; I can't recall many of our conversations. but just your presence in the semi-darkness was good enough for me.
do you remember when I started to fall in love with you? we were sprawled on the dock behind my overgrown backy
MonthsThe stars whisper softly, into the
Ears of those who want to believe
'And if she leaves you, smile, for
It's just the bones she's made of'
They met, in a pet shop up front
He- bought nothing. She- fed the birds
And took them home. They flew away
Instantly, Leaving the boy to fall
The girl bittersweet,
Welcomed him in, humming, and
He kept her up all night when she
Said she loved the starlighted sky
Up on their rooftop she finally
Confessed; "Some would call me
caged, but I believe I'm free"
Only then he noticed, her fragile
bones were ment to fly; he let her go
cratersI like to think that over this past year you've come to understand
that my heart is a cratered sun
and my veins make up constellations across my vulnerable vertebrae,
because when I close my eyes,
it's you that my subconscious summons as I sleep,
There's just something about you that completely electrifies my skin,
your touch draws conclusions between the freckles on my forearms
and I'm left wondering how you even connected the dots,
But you make me nervous in a young kind of way
and there's this fragile sense of longing that I'm not quite sure i understand,
although tonight I could feel your laugh settle between my palms like a lost lamb
and for a moment I let your innocence brush over my fingertips
and it felt like that moment was ours and ours alone,
So let's hold onto railroads
like we're about to be run over,
and let's hold onto candles
until our waxen limbs burn down to the wick,
and let's hold onto each other
while the stars drip down over our shoulders to melt away our sins.
The TrundlerThe waste land behind the fire station is always silent. No birds sing there, and even the wild rabbits and feral cats avoid it. Weedy wildflowers nod their seasonal heads in the breeze. Lying fallow in the midst of housing developments, shopping malls, the new movie theater — the vacant lot stands out like a knife wound on a woman’s placid face, shocking, brazen, ugly.
It is always empty. Except for one thing: a ragged heap of old trash, all nasty black tar paper and vicious snarls of rusted wire, car parts and broken glass and other junkyard jetsam. The embodiment of injury waiting to happen, an invitation to a tetanus shot... the city never hauled it away. No one ever wants anywhere near it; it radiates an eerie sense of calculating watchfulness.
And at night, it wanders.
When darkness falls, and the last cars heading into the hives of tract housing stop illuminating the asphalt with moving-picture shadows, it… unfolds. Bitter, broken tangles, grotesquely mov
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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