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IntrovertYou insist that I keep my presence quiet --
so I am the flutter in your belly
braiding your stomach into knots
and burning ulcers into the lining
and I have discovered that,
if I bleed a little faster,
I can breathe a little softer
when you exhale a series of insults --
but I take them like the man
that you almost could have been
while you die slowly on the inside
and I am cradling your offspring
with warm arms and cotton
in the wake of your mourning
DissipateMy flesh is stretching --
reaching for the words that
are right outside my grasp
just to keep your taste on my tongue
the ache in my thighs is
setting fire to my blood,
bleeding me thin and worn
My body is folding --
collapsing into creases that
flutter beneath your fingertips
and suffocate for escape
I am breaking down into particles
and burning the ashes
to leave no trace of a memory
My parents never took me to church. Maybe that’s why my eyes lit up when you asked me to join you last Christmas Eve. After that first sermon, I realized why my parents never went. I only kept going back because you kept asking and I just couldn’t bear to see your smile falter.
Your family has never painted eggs for Easter morning. They consider it a mockery of God. Instead, you painted yourself in a dress of white lace and me in a new pinstripe suit so that we could hide among the congregation. The way you see it, the devil cannot consume what he cannot ever find.
Easter is a holiday for losing yourself to intoxication. You were high on God. I was lost in your smile. He was drunk on beer and cheap liquor. Maybe it was nothing more than our commonalities that pulled us onto our collision course that morning.
I was in the hospital waiting room when I learned atheism firsthand. The doctors came out and told us that the Lord had taken you back home.
BeautyWe were beautiful--
a memory long dissipated
but still held, somewhere
in the breath of a dream
You taught me how to love
with the catharsis of your tongue
blooming a butterfly from your throat
to eat at my soul with its larvae
but you still kept your beauty
And I was beautiful--
a delusion held in my whispers
and carved into a canvas of white flesh
held pure by nothing concrete
I had forgotten how to love
anything that could reject me
I buried myself in insect wings
and pretended to be colorful
but I was still monochrome
We would be beautiful--
but I plucked the wings from your butterfly
spread the dust on my fingers
and blew our future into the wind
DriftwoodLove and forgetting
might have carried us
but impulse led us
to follow the washout
Each slide of the earth beneath our footsteps
poured forth more nights of longing
and left rocks at our sides for comfort
Love and forgetting
might have carried us
but resentment left us
too curious to stop our descent
Look at MeSuppressed childhood tragedies
and dull morning hangovers
can make mirrors become silver puzzles --
meant for palm prints and fingertips
to trace shivers through the spine
because crystal blue valleys
are worth more when explored
in saltwater reflections
of decaying tooth enamel
than in the eyes of someone else
No matter what you believe,
I know this can’t be me
OptimismI have two cardiac chambers drained of love --
but the other half filled with poison
because I'm the kind of girl who bleeds for a glass-half-full attitude
even if it means bleeding half to death
HarlotThese wounds are bitter nights --
every line marks the memory of
another faceless man
each with the voice of her father
-- where her skeleton had clawed at the stars in her eyes
until the sky went black with cloudy unconsciousness
And she worships her physique --
every curve holds the fingerprints of
caressing delinquents and hardened criminals
each with an agenda of his own
-- where she molded her frame from broken ivory
until the marrow could flow into every artery
Her body is a temple
and even Jesus was once a man
MakarI am discovering poetry in lines of genius --
fragments of a broken existence
where only misfit pieces build the puzzle
and discarding the words like carbon dioxide
They are drowning me in a dictionary of experiences --
inhale a panicked definition of life
and exhale an ocean of ink and paper
with no surface in sight
every artist should die for their passion
Change this lifeHiding in the shadows
Resisting in secrecy
Trying to find a way
To change this life of misery
The future is unknown
The past is to forget
The present is dull and boring
Is this what life has to offer?
I want to change
And I keep trying
Only to fail miserabily
Every single time
eight ways you've made me small1. I wish
this was for you.
2. my journal pages - the
brown one with all our monologues -
were jarred with hollow vows of
last poems of
letting you slip into a coma
of bad memories, watching you
fall to your death off
a cascading cliff of disease
and dis ease.
it was never
easy for me
3. there's a reason I ask
whether you're grey
(dark white, elusively black, in between)
or blue (behind the clouds, under wave-foam,
whateverthefuck runs through the back of my
palms); I'd rather have
than the arms
that once held you half-
heartedly. you had always been
my harmony and I
would have killed
to have been yours.
4. it could never have been just me, the way
it could never have been just
5. disasters are not beautiful,
but how is it that you
managed to make my inner linings
converge into bows
and explode into wings the very
night you decided to rebuild your walls
to a lower height?
6. I wish
on bradbury and table dancingYou are not a wordsmith
whatever you might like to think. ('Smith'
indicates precision and coldness and fire:
words are softer than that unless you mold them strong.)
It's a difficult road to follow, and not many
make it past the fork. Choose a path,
Janus says, whirligig keys spinning on his shoulders:
I am a wordworker, with my tools too crude, forming
rough-edged carvings painted with pretty imagery.
Notebooks scattered across the landscape
of a child's room, to be stumbled across,
read, red-penned, in the thick and choking breath of night.
When the bough breaks
a hanged man laughs. He carries typewriters
in his pockets, and cigarettes in the soles of his shoes.
I will never be a word mistress,
whoring myself to the speech of people I do not know and will never know me.
The oven is set to Fahrenheit 452, but the words were already aflame
before they ever took shape under your tongue.
You love everything they've ever written, and carry
unabashed loathing for every syllabl
Whenever I hurt myselfI have a feeling
Someone is watching
So I look around
But there's no one to be found
when i stimulated the prayers of rib-beat
when i licked the temple of my teeth,
speed pushed my fingers shaped like confessionals
clasped holy, carved my throat to fixing-
lover; i did this for the anthem of your eyes,
the feel of strangled feet crushing the fame of stars
for the glow of streetlight worship, for the moons
of your crooning throat, for the halls of your arms,
the strayed revels of your arms,
lover: you manufactured a god out of the drugs i used
and had me addicted to the divine, to the dignity of music
you pressed in my direction: just what i am, hallelujah,
marijuana, day and night-
lover, i fell in love with your culture
that preached the real definition of dusked kneecaps,
the plea of closeted throats, the whisper of bless,
unlearning how to say please god in borrowed tongue,
i fell in love with your attention, with nervous grace
lover. i levied the rubble of my sins
ExpirationWith you I always feel like I’m
to break in the wrong size of shoes.
Sometimes I sit and stew
over how you’re seventeen and
you think I’m a princess
the trapped-in-a-tower kind
and how you wear suits and talk about politics
and think you know the world.
My throat interrupts with an affronted gurgling sound
sometimes when I think about you,
you deal out advice where it just isn’t called for
you quote science-fiction to justify war
and you’re seventeen years old and you think I’m a princess
and you just have no blooming idea.
Darling, one of these days I will tell you my mind
But until then we’ll never fit
I’m afraid –
that even after that day
you’ll still be trimmed hedges and
Even The City KnowsIs it at all easy?
Being by yourself, I mean.
Sitting in a car, on a train, on a bus--wherever you might be now, isn't it hard to be a drifter?
There are no men with newspapers, no women with strollers, no love-crazy teenagers, no annoying toddlers, no anybody.
You stare out the window, like there are people out there, calling your name. The trees are out there, and they've lost all their leaves, all their buds--they've lost everything, just like you.
The sky is out there, and it's gray and colorless, just like you.
The stars are out there, and they're so blown-out-of-proportion, and they're just like you, too.
But the trees, the skies, the stars, they're used to being left alone.
You lack the ebullience of your drink, but it, too, is fading.
Frost has gathered on windows, on the ground, on rivers, everywhere.
Frost comes and goes, just like you, when you finally melt away.
The city draws to darkness and quiet--it disappears, just like you.
But, even frost
Death to the LoversHe screamed,
He tore his hair from his scalp;
But it didn't bring her back.
The beautiful girl
With the gorgeous smile
And witty remarks
Would always lay six feet under.
She would lie in her death bed,
Her arms folded on her chest
And her face full of peace
Known only to the dead.
He would be the first to rot.
First his health,
Then his sanity.
She would forever feed on his emotions
Like a pretty little leech,
Sapping his well being
And happiness from her underground world.
And he would let her,
For a fool like him
Who allowed himself to love,
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^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