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I dreamt of a flood and you were the waterLight bulb eyes,
burning through me like
crash into me
as I dream,
your ocean spits me out
through seaweed teeth,
and I love you,
but you blink light
and breathe water,
so not only am I blind,
I am drowning.
blue born licorice whips,
weaving webs for blood spiders on my thighs,
thin cerulean shoelaces tying knots around my wrists,
hold fast, heartbeats pumping like gasoline,
I am living, but I am not alive.
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.
NocturnalWrapped up tight by my own wings,
I hang upside down
while the blood rushes to my head
inside my cobwebbed cocoon,
Ultraviolet rays flicker against my eyelids
in colors I have never seen,
yet maybe I have once before,
I saw them the first time your skin brushed mine,
a kaleidoscope of solar energy
making me blind enough to see the light,
Your voice now echoing in a frequency
only I can hear,
it ricochets through my thin bat bones,
lingering along my teeth
so I can taste the way you sound
along the backside of my cavity,
But now you've been bitten
because I have no control,
my incisors sinking in to your handsome heart
because you are ripened fruit
in the dead of Winter
and I am a parasite
in Summer's wake,
If only the day ever met the night
maybe we could meet again,
but for now this must be enough,
so I return to the shelter of my own wings
to protect myself from the sun
and your own astrological luminosity.
who am ii. i am a shy shakespearean sonnet,
silent like a silent, holy night;
the only things that wander here are
malignant whisperers and
ii. i am a wild withered wolf,
swamp dusted fur with
wrung out rack bone ribs and
deer never sounded so
iii. i am a childish carnivore's caress,
made up of granite and rock and
nothing truly exceptional,
no nothing truly great.
iv. i am a lovely lanky lullaby,
sung by old-fashioned orca whales
and monsters from
under the bed.
v. i am a perishable paranormal pomegranate,
succulent seeds to a rotting core,
gutted and extinguished,
to never be enjoyed again.
vi. i am a sleek sanguine scar,
from a memory of fourteen years ago today;
to match the twelve stitches that held the
skin in place.
vii. i am a chilled clairvoyant cavern,
filled with sweet vampire bats
and nocturnal light,
which means no real light at all.
viii. i am an ancient arctic anchor,
holding down a ship at sea;
withering away with oars and humans
and all things seaweed.
a taxidermy fawn,
existing yet comatose,
my soul flickers within a lantern,
releasing a smoke with the scent of
pheromones and vanilla verbena,
but your necromantic whispers
linger in my ears,
so sweet and succulent as peaches,
give me breath,
filling my lungs upon a full moon,
oh i'd so like to take a bite of you,
you and your jungle bred lips,
tropical to taste,
organic to kiss,
jaguar, leopard spots
cover your skin
in patterns painted by the forest,
then a low, throaty growl
slips from your jaw,
haunting me like a past mistake,
but you are wild bamboo
and the sound of my heart beating,
palpitating against soft winters,
pulsing with the rhythm of summer,
for some reason you suit me
in all seasons,
and like gravity
you hold me
so no, i cannot escape you,
for no one can bypass
an autumnal equinox
or an eclipse of the sun,
you only continue to
kindle the flames
you used my wooden ribs to make
and i truly love
that searing sensation in my gut,
let your wildfire run freei. It's a warm kind of rain and a growling kind of thunder,
throaty and crackling booms,
I've dreamt of this place before,
there's this room made up of tall glass windows,
outside is a wrap around balcony made up of stone with high ledges,
small fir trees grow in between the crackled rock
and I'm breathing slow, soaking in the sky's sweat.
ii. Perspiring and porous clouds melt over this broken land
and I'm realizing this place lives only inside my soul when sleeping.
iii. It is a hazy painting running over the contours of my unconscious mind,
it is airbrushed afterthoughts swirling with watercolor wishes,
it is the place where my nightmares breed and my hopes climb trees,
it is the place where intuition ricochets off instinct,
it is the place that says burn the place down and let your wildfire run free.
sometimes i imagine i'm a bird and it's all okayI'm staring through the kitchen window,
the moon looks like it might be a warm place to be,
soft glow, pale light,
sometimes I wonder if it would look better if you were standing next to me,
no, I'm pretty sure it wouldn't,
desperation doesn't make astronomy any prettier,
and it certainly doesn't do my self worth any justice,
but your eyes are like the milky way,
they take me away,
but distant turns to empty and emotionless until the sun has gone and caved in on itself,
it's golden hot beeswax melting in circles because star-hot sinking sand refuses to lets go,
now it's all oh, I've got this scorched tongue that soaks up sunrises when you're not here,
please forgive me for I can't control the fact that it's two minutes passed 1
or the fact that you've already been taken by some girl with tattooed thighs,
now I've got these backwards knees and disjointed thumbs,
it's too bad what you've done to me,
I mean the way your arms felt--
I do not need this,
I am a tortured spider
i am october's love letter to novemberhopeful,
so the same and stretched out like skin over bone,
but different because one means everything and
one takes everything away.
i am not used to this kind of way,
the way where scratches don't heal and bruises grow bigger.
i try to focus on the bass and let the music pulse through me,
allow it to remove the nerve endings to my thoughts
because i want hair that's made up of bass clefs and double stops.
i want the world to come crashing down at my feet
so the ocean fuses with the burning salmon sun-drops that are molding under the collapsing sky.
it will look like citrus fruit bleeding onto royal blue flowing skirts,
it will taste like a cold copper penny,
it will smell like ripe coconut milk braided with kerosene,
and it will feel like you've been bathing in hummingbird nectar that's been set on fire.
then again, how would i know what music tastes like,
it's not like you can lick vocal chords or bite into someone's vibrato,
everything fluctuates and now i don't even know
Shake It OffSelective collective
- coagulating -
regret accumulating against you.
Re - living it was the easy part.
No way. There was no light.
the glow of a ghost.
- heart murmurs -
I paused to savor the expansion of blood in my arteries.
A declaration of demons
- monstrosity -
But honestly, I was just like them. I just wanted my pound of flesh.
Ghost StoryWhat is this
on the next horizon
holding strong against the wind,
it is a figment,
it is an oil stain,
it is something
less than a blur
and more than a photograph.
unfathomed depthsIt took years
to build a home
Dreams he had,
reality in which
It took years...
in which he
but the pieces
are too small.
It took years...
Dreams he had,
life he lives,
emptiness he feels,
even walls whisper.
Days are long,
and almost the same,
nothing new to
awake the joy,
dreams are buried
a long time ago,
tho man still lives.
Empty and sad,
angry and bitter,
he still lives in the house
in which he used to
plan his future,
dreams that kept him alive,
tho pieces of happiness
are too small,
it took years to built
a home like that.
It took years
for man to
give up on his dreams,
he used to live
along with them.
Pieces of happiness
regardless of where and which roads (write)i. so today we get together
as per your request
today you (at last) confess to me
i watch you narrate
the e.e. cummings you've
kept chained in your rhythm,
in your beats and paces and all other nooks
and hidden places
i've secretly always known existed
i want you to start writing today
ii. you tell me you believe
in your ability
to write the words i always knew you whispered;
steaming at the hearts of other girls
turning them to froth
while i watch my own heart
shrivel like dregs
in the same cup of cappuccino
i've always been drinking off drought
iii. i am screaming even in my softest tissues
blaming my body for my hearts' issues
admit to me
(your best blue jeans and bravery set forth)
read me unspoken
find it futile to resist (dear me)
by grace you do and you do
admit to me
my meth, my myth
how (i never have the courage to say)
i am your greatest muse
SnowLet's lose our faces tonight
Chemical anxiety and paper highs
Thrown to the curb by something stronger, small and white
While stars burn out their insides; Prometheus in the sky.
I always thought you were a lie:
Stinking pop culture curling bright around my eye
But now I wonder if your treasure is something I could find
Leaping from the bass lines into my frenzied, eager mind.
InsomniaA miniature moon floats sleepily
atop my open window;
a drifting continent sifting
over shivering tree tops.
Watery clouds explore along the
broken crest of atoms,
fingers rolling in the shadows
of its dimensions.
My skewed sight steadily begins to
repaint the scattered stars and
one by one like raindrops,
they burst across the sky
Breathing down in thoughtful shafts
upon the inside of my eyelids.
I'm thankful to be an insomniac.
Icarus DreamsHe had Icarus dreams,
it was not for the flight
that he longed.
But the descent,
the freedom of the fall,
abandon, out of control,
between life and death.
For that one beautiful
moment, you gave yourself up
On the SeafloorUnseeing eyes attracted to unseeing people:
a tidal cycle that pulls me under
beneath salted layers of foam.
I thought mistakes bred solutions
different methods of hopeful change,
but I lay submerged,
and I subjectively ponder
this warden Loneliness
until my eyes secret watered gallons
to outline saline graves.
I rest in my watery casket of winding seaweed,
and I breathe in the moonlight from peaks of exuberant waves;
I pull the stars over my head, fluff the shell-filled sand
and am finally free.
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