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THIS IS A SIGNall the fallen eyelashes in the world
couldn't make your wishes come true,
no burning ball of ice millions of miles
above you is gonna get you to where
you want to be
stop wishing -
buy an old RV and send a handwritten
note to the boy you love, you don't
need dependency, you're way too strong
for that, love you could carry the galaxy
like a backpack and still be able to hold
do not underestimate yourself -
every moment is a new opportunity, so
greet spontaneity like an old friend and
walk hand in hand with it because you
deserve to be able to speak whatever you
want, if you feel it then it's real
and if it's real then it should be in reality,
there are trillions of inklings of hope tucked
beneath your finger tips and on the edges
of your tongue, there are horizons carved
into the balls of your feet
desolateyou are a broken house with smashed windows
and ivy growing between your fingers
you are fragile and with every
creaking footstep on the stairs you pray so
hard that you have let the right one in
there will be people,
people with minds so blissfully ignorant that
they walk right through you and do not
see the splintered furniture residing within your
body, you are invisible to them,
you wonder if you are even there
but then there are other people -
people worth staying standing for,
people who will walk in and gently run their
fingers along the parts of yourself that
you forgot were even there,
people who will explore your anatomy like
it is an undiscovered world.
let them find the stale cup of water you left
beneath your bed 5 months ago,
let them find the brittle treasures you hide
in your fireplace, and how you masochistically
adore the way that you could just
catch on fire at any
but do not let them break you,
not ever again.
origami death wisha piece of paper, no matter how big or how small,
can only be folded eight times over
before it springs back out
and unfolds itself.
i could fold into myself a trillion times over
just so i would fit in the space between the two fingers
that you hold your cigarette with.
on insignificanceisolation and claustrophobia
are a lot more similar than you
might think -
these bones feel like
an exoskeleton, all cages
and bars and the
inside my nose and to the back
of my throat
and around my wrists,
press myself against the wall
forearm to neck
i keep this rotting corpse alive
all i want is to look in the mirror and breathe out
and feel like i can still carry on breathing,
some people say the body and mind are
separate but we all know that's just wishful thinking
- self preservation, if you will -
go to sleep with an inkling of hope and wake up vomiting words
sunday girli watch you shuffle through the kitchen
and i can feel my fingers softening
and my mind crashing but there are so many
things i want to scream at you, like:
how on earth did you learn to love me
when there are continents forming between my ankles,
when i'm stuck in the middle of a road and there's
a car coming right for me and i just stand and wait,
and how on earth could anyone
have so many freckles between their shoulder blades and
why is it that when you nestle your stupid head into
the spaces between my ribs all i can say is
that your hair smells like September 25th, 2012,
or how your eyes look like pages of an atlas
and that i want to read the whole thing
some people say you can miss somebody before they've even arrived.
i just tell them, "i know."
the smell of dying flowersroses are always better
first thing in the morning,
just like hands are always better
held in winter.
having said that,
i never did quite understand the
way that your neck stayed so
tanned the whole year round,
or how tomorrow, it'll be a year and
a half exactly since we first exchanged
preferences are not a luxury
i seem to possess, not anymore,
not now you're linked hands with her
and i'm still standing here,
all alone. no man is an island, but
i feel as if i could dive right away from
myself and swim forever. i want to
wrap myself inside myself over and over
again, like waves that tumble right
the way through to the edges of the universe,
yet i still can't seem to shake this
feeling that climbs its way
up my throat when i'm crawling around
under covers, like moths chewing away
at the lining of my stomach.
i feel like i'm living with corpses, dead
wreaths and your wraith twining
into my innards, slowly,
phantom fingersthese bones
there's a clitter-clatter
whirl of a girl with limbs
and she speaks in boxes
her bones clap like an audience
as she grinds her shoulders
and wiggles her fingers
and plays prelude in e minor
for the whole wide world to hear
(she doesn't even really like the song.
she just likes the way the composer's name
sounds in her mouth.)
ghosts slide underneath her nail beds
her bloody, bleeding, bitten nail beds
and when she goes to sleep at night
they crawl out and tangle themselves
right between her shoulder blades
and round her rib cage
and embed themselves in everything
she had ever grown to love.
"these bones are haunted,"
she mutters to herself
as she combs poltergeists
and demons out of her hair,
"these bones are haunted
and there is
nothing you can do."
no greyi am levitating with
a cloud tucked beneath
i float in the ionosphere
with solar rays refracting
through my cell's cytoplasms,
like the atoms
inside my body are joining
back together with the
and i'm going
to be whole again, i promise:
i can see for the
first time in centuries
and my lungs are clean,
my chest is open
point blank dangerousthe other morning i saw bugs crawling into my sink that weren't there when i looked back up again. i get headaches the size of bricks, stabbing me like toothpicks and chainsaws all at once. when i see you my hands start shaking and not in a good way, not anymore, i can't look at your eyes without wanting to throw up - not from disgust, but from pure, unadulterated fear, you are the most beautiful pistol, point blank dangerous, since the first time you looked at me in that way - and you know the way i mean - i knew i'd just bought myself a one way ticket into the pit of my stomach and i knew i wouldn't be alright for a very, very long time. and they say forever isn't that long at all but try carving your own infinities into the soles of your feet or balling your hands into fists and opening them with new dimensions inside, it ain't all that easy and maybe now you'll understand when i tell you i can't move on. not because it's risky, not because i'm scared. i'm not scare
there were tidepools in his eyes, andhe remembered blue walls
like ocean miles, time he couldn't forget
because it welled up
like waves beneath his skin; lined with creases he'd
earned through eternity, he watched
the sky and asked how long had it really been -
nothing saved from
the ashes but saltwater stains
on clothes, on cheeks in place of
(the sun never stood a chance)
and the way he'd always slept with a s-stutter -
standing with waves crashing like
thunder to his knees he remembered a time
not long ago when it was
and he knew he was scared of the
end because he
didn't want to sink beneath the water, nothing
left but bones and sightless
(inhuman in the fullest; a monster to the third degree, he knew) -
and he put it off
once and again until it came for
him and knocked on the door; invited itself
in and told him now, i've been patient
for a while, but -
and he realized
amidst a falling grace that sometimes
death is the most human of us
things i have come to know about the sky1.
you are endless, a backlit canopy
or stage of infinites; some say
you speak to them in low murmurs,
that you rain judgement down upon us,
i fear you not, you've caught my eye a few times
but i only looked up to see what
the hype was all about
when i was born, doctors said i was blue
—cerulean as the sky
scientists say the sky is like an onion;
layers of celestial sphere you can slice off
with a thumbnail, 217.5 miles of teary eyes
& thick skin
we know not of what it is that compels
gravity to roll this sorrow down our faces
in some cultures they say the sky is a
thronedom, an altar for the gods; weather,
an instrument of rageful indifference,
a beautiful devotion worthy of arthritis
and a place in our school books
you torture us as the romans did,
we the bread for your melancholy circuses;
apathy never looked so poetic
as you do when you paint yourself with humid
we watch from the shoreline,
taking pictures for our friends who couldn't
quite make it an
the suicidal king of heartsthe truth is i haven’t gone to church
in years and the town i was born in is one
half train tracks, one half hotels and one half
fast food restaurants.
i guess i was always going to be good at running away.
it’s in my blood.
i’m getting too old to still want to turn
into a mermaid on my sixteenth birthday
so i do not have to worry about taxes
and income and the difference between mols
and moles and the difference between
wearing your heart on your sleeve
and giving it to someone you trust.
it would be nice to not have to worry.
but if this poem is about honesty,
i have to tell you i still dream about that
the thing i’ve noticed about growing up,
is that you’ll think you’re old and you’ll think you’re old
but you’re never really grown up until
you walk past dandelions without picking them
or step on one two three cracks in the sidewalk,
without remembering there is something you should be
some days, i’ll
three ways to fall aparti.
we were seventeen
when you promised me that
this tiny dustbowl of
a southern town was not going to be
everything my life was made of.
it wasn't hard to believe
because the maps you'd spread across
your ceiling never lied (since you claimed
it was easier to dream when they
were stuck above you
in the night).
i remember the lines you'd drawn
in a felt pen, red because it seemed important,
seemed louder than the rest, and
i remember how you
would trace the roads with your eyes until you
fell asleep. you had a knack for
memorizing every escape route, and when i asked why
you answered that it was because one day you
would have to run.
when i asked if i could fly away with you
you said yes, and that night i dreamt
of runaways and falling stars. i never was sure
if they were supposed to mean something bigger than us.
sometimes when i lie awake at night
i wonder now how far we might
have gotten if we ever left, if we had jumped into
your old impala and left the road behind us -
.we are one and the
same, that old willow and
me, we stand tall with the
scars that life gave us -
with the names of lovers
carved deep in our limbs,
and old burns from my
Our Kingdom ComeI have a theory.
My theory is that when you die, as your life flashes before your eyes and your body puts up its last pitiful fight for life before shutting down, you realize what your purpose was, and that's when you know who you truly are.
It's not exactly testable, which means professional scientists wouldn't touch it with a ten-foot pole, but I think in my condition a little baseless theory ain't the worst I could do.
I'm 25 years old and dying.
I'm going young, I know. I can't begin to tell you how many people are disappointed that I'm clocking out early. Can't say I wanted it is this way. If I could go back in time and prevent the accident from happening I would. But of course I can't, so all I'm left with is this: this hospital bed, these tubes, these slow, labored breaths, these thoughts. All these things that don't matter much because I can't take them with me.
Then again, what can I take?
What actually goes with you when you die?
I have to be honest, I'm not all that b
Those ThursdaysWhat about those thursday mornings
when you'd wake up and find your ribcage door
swung open again by the nightmares
with an owl nesting, and pecking at your heart muscle?
What about those thursday mornings
and having to fold your elbows around your knees
to stop yourself from losing anything important
as the mechanics shook and shook you
and the pain cracked you, bones and blisters?
What about those tuesday afternoons
when you hear that familiar sound that makes you cry,
that hissing noise that warns you of upcoming agony
and you can taste it in your mouth again, so familiar -
what about those tuesday afternoons
when you swallow your words and the drugs
to try and stop it from coming back
but it returns just the same and against your will
you hear yourself still breathing?
What about it?
What about those hazy sunday evenings
when the fine line between oh-god-make-it-stop
and please-god-let-it-end gets blurry somehow
and you don't remember how much you drank, or what?
What about those d
Being Okay Is The Hardest Thing We DoBeing Okay Is The Hardest Thing We Do
because being okay is expected,
if we’re not okay, that’s not okay,
what can we do to be okay?
we can scribble illegible words
on a canvas made for by painters
masquerading as notebook paper,
and hope that we can sell the burn
of stinging emotions for some paper.
but the funny thing about that thought?
is that american money isn’t paper,
it’s 75% cotton and 25% linen fibers.
so even the money you'd earn from your misery,
isn't anything you can write on
when you realize your money isn't
made to heal. even if it does talk.
but it never really ever says enough, does it?
But that's okay...
being okay is the hardest thing we do
because sticks and stones do break bones,
but you can hide the scars
with a jacket or longer sweatshirt.
or put on pants as opposed to athletic shorts.
words kill, words heal, and words are so much more.
and you can't hide the scars that riddle your face,
the way your
she tasted like religionhis hands still believe in the curves of her waist
and the loose strands of hair in her face,
his hands still believe in all the nights they lost
and all the nights they could never have
"it's the art of letting go," she would whisper to him,
lip to ear, jaw jutting out ever so slightly
as if to kiss but not quite and oh god,
he wanted to kiss her,
and he knows his god is broken but his faith is not
How It Began"God, your two o'clock is here."
"I have a two o'clock?"
"He's been here since 7:45. I figured it's only polite to... sir."
God sighed. "Fine, send him in."
While He waited God cleared His desk of papers and blueprints; no need for outsiders to see His plans. Soon enough the door to His office opened and God stood, smiled, held out a hand towards one of the two visitor's chairs.
"God! Great stuff you're doing in sector 2-7-0! Great stuff!"
The man's hands were clammy, his handshake limp. Rumpled suit, porkpie hat, briefcase... oh Jes-- oh dear, a salesman. God's smile slipped a little but He soldiered on gamely. With luck He could shoo the poor guy away in a few minutes.
"So, what can I do for you?"
The man sat, briefcase across his knees. "Sector 2-7-0! Everyone's talking about it! What do you call it? Man and merman?"
"Man and woman, actually. And thanks. But we're pretty busy around here, and..."
"Oh! Right! No time for the wicked, eh?" The salesman winked and popped his briefcase,
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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