|Deviant Login||Shop||Join deviantART for FREE||Take the Tour|
he slides you a coffee across the table and says
the ladders in your tights look like rollercoasters
and the bottom of your stomach drops and you smile
because he has nice eyes and he bought you coffee
and you want to be a girl that wants these things, you want to be
a rollercoaster, and you take a sip of your new drink
even though he ordered one with everything you hate and you say
and you hope he doesn't notice that you touch the cup again
he hands you a picked daffodil from just down the road and says
your smile isn't half as bright as this
and you take it in your hand and you snap the stem gently near the bottom
while he kisses you smooth on the mouth and steps over your
doorway like a creeping root and you think about the way daffodils
and dandelions are both yellow but one of them gets to fly away
while one of them just shrivels up on windowledges and you say
and you hope that he is a dandelion that is nearly ready t
loving you nowloving you the way i do now is like a revolution
bodies swarming back into the streets
flags and hand signs and guns thrown into the air
loving you now is thick ropes with sharp hooks
necked around the bright marble statues of you,
pulling and pulling and shattering,
loving you now is fallen idols in the streets
and the smell of sweet breads, and the sound of
hammers and nails and wood skeletons going back up;
loving you now is like rebuilding a city i nearly bulldozed
(loving you as a friend is easier than loving you as a god)
loving you now is so much better than loving you then
fox skinthe heat is rolling in like a bad omen
and i will be waiting on the doorstep
with my arms open wide as if for the rain
one day you will come home and i will
fit you into my palms like you were built
to cradle between my lifelines and crooked thumbs
to tuck into the folds of my too-tight skin,
like your lungs held air
even when i wasn't breathing into them.
summer means three things:
i. my fingers tangle like headphones in your pocket and i drop letters and don't care
ii. i would hook my hands into my neck with fishhook fingers if i could pull you out of me
iii. i choke on my own tongue trying to summon the words that will summon you.
you drag behind me like a shadow, nestle under my tongue like a scab,
i would pull-pop every muscle in my mouth and spit you out like blood
if i weren't so busy nursing day-old water
and waiting for your lips
remembered on my neck
to pass over me:
i am waiting for you to die in my heart, where it matters most
call me your coffin
as long as you do not ac
romance! death! i don't even know if i like you!nothing good lasts forever - so that's okay
we'll be holding hands right into the apocalypse
i will rest by the river and bloomi have eaten so many cherries i have lost count,
my fingers bundled up with their stems, my teeth aching.
with the fruit flesh still threaded around them, the seeds
look like little organs, little stone hearts:
i eat them all, every one. maybe they will hatch in my stomach
like bitter eggs, and a thousand hundred giant trees will
grow slowly though my bones and my bloodstream, maybe they will
burst up and out through my mouth. i will be a bleeding flowerpot,
a forest floor with shoes, an incubator. i will be the zombie
apocalypse of cherry trees. i will grow my wooden teeth through the roof.
my bad decisions will touch the sky.
cloudhandedthey tell you that you're strong and you
imagine them handing atlas the skies
and whispering the same thing;
you only wanted to put everything down for a few moments:
it is not weak to need to breathe in again, it is
not weak if your lungs cannot hold down saltwater
it is not weak
it is not weak
it is not weak
weathervane"I would like to kiss you,
very slowly on the mouth
as soft as a sunrise."
I have a pen between my teeth
and this is all I have written to you
in shaking letters. I have plasters on my fingers
like my goal is to keep my claws in,
when they are really there to keep my teeth out
and I have not washed my hair in days.
I am the parody of the beast and my letters to you
are fumbled and dropped and bitter peeling
behind my teeth. jammed into the gums, and I
cannot write anything that does not growl with a lie.
I want, I want to kiss you, just once,
just one single time to know what your face feels like
under my hands, I want to swallow you up just once,
just once, but even as I write the promise I am crossing it out
knowing in my turning stomach that your lips are a firelighter
and I am a forest, knowing that you are the feast and I, I -
do not have the good in me to do anything
but call you messiah and drink your bones down,
do not have the soul in me to drag my fingers over your arms
you're crumblingyou are a writer and you want to tell me a story but you
are the worst kind of writer because you're too busy
scribing as you go to feel your heels catch the air.
you are a tailor walking down the street
and unpicking seams just to prove you know how.
i thought you were writing a romance,
until i noticed that you were writing a tragedy.
or maybe just a horror.
i thought i was the vampire in your
universe, i thought you'd take your inky fingers
and put me down as interesting and sharp
carve me out of cobwebs and silently
fall in love with me
i thought you were writing about me. well,
it's too late now. i'm writing about me, and i'm writing
everything i can about me and about us. this is
my horror story, this is my doomed romance, and i
don't want to be the wispy starving thing i was around you,
i don't want to flex my fingers and know that
each join could crumble any second now. no, this is my story,
and i'll be my own monster.
i'm thinking harpy.
i'm thinking gorgon.
i'm thinking that
i swallow you like gritI am sitting in the back garden like my bones are reclining chairs and my browbeaten headaches will eb out like the tide if I only stare down the blues for long enough. The grass is sweet like lipgloss on a magazine page, rests with a coolness I cannot hold to wrap my lungs around while my lips taste like cigarette burns. My feet are in the light, in the heat. My toes flex like dying worms as they stretch out over the other half of this bench, nestled tight under the windows. Maybe I'm waiting for you to press your face against the glass and shout until I can hear you over my music, instead of in it. Maybe I am waiting for you to sit down beside me and complain about the construction work.
We're building a barbeque pit; I think. The stonemarked hole in the border looks too big from here, but I sit up in the night until my bulbs blow out and I drag myself from darkhot hungry evening to exhausted sunrise on cheap noodles and boiling water. I sign your name on my wrist and stretch out my
a void danceThere is a hole in my chest
and I've clawed it open,
the rest of my faulty smiles escaping.
Blackened piano keys and shameless metaphors
spiraling down my spine,
tainting my skin with the inferiority.
There is a hole in my chest,
babe, and I'm terrified that when you hold me,
I'll only shatter your hopes
of finding something so unlike you.
There is a fucking hole in my chest
and it's been growing, like a reverse pregnancy
I think I might have planned.
And I'm so scared that if you kiss me,
all you will taste is polluted air.
There is a hole in my chest,
I put it there,
and I'm sorry you tried to fall in.
listen.the wind is grazing into the shore and
we are just children, people hating people because we
don't know what else to hate (except ourselves).
between the peaks and rock shelves we find ourselves reaching
for books of reality, books that will tell us the answer,
the elusive answer and we don't even know the question yet.
the meaning of life turns into hours on a summer porch eating
yellow peaches and skimming novels we know we'll never
really read. we'll skip rocks until our hands shake of age
and then we'll sit, mute, in a room full of people we hate,
eating shit soup and watching nurses make their rounds.
but there are still words to make up and songs to wind our
clocks back and we are still breathing. they make a cure for everything.
chapped lips- swipe vitamin e. weight loss- drink water and stop eating
so damn much. heartache- dive into chapter two and make the pages stop
running away from you.
the only cure they haven't figured out is how to save us from ourselves.
for every gun t
atlantis.when i was young i lived by the sea in a small creaky house that couldn't keep me warm. i wanted to see how people breathe and fight and discover and live but my momwidowed by a dreamerwanted me safe with her.
i met a boy when i was eight or nine and he said hello every morning and brought us eggs and milk and groceries and stuff. he always gave me a seashell, still dripping salt water and he told me it was from atlantis.
impossible, i'd say.
improbable, he'd say.
and i went back to bed with another seashell in my drawer.
it wasn't until months later that this boy i loved would teach me how to get to atlantis.
there was lightning crisscrossing the delicate sky and my skin was wet. i couldn't see and i was frozen numb, but this boy doggedly dragged me to the dock. jump, he said, jump like you mean it. and i thought he wanted to kill me.
but i held my breath and leapt into the icy water and he followed me in. i gasped for air and he snagged my hand and torpedoed down and i th
ConvenienceTeach me how to trap your firefly breaths
in the net of my tessellated skin,
so if I wake, short of recollections,
I still have the chance to watch my pores
lie open against yours, alive.
Walk your fingers along my clavicles
like they lead you home,
where the walls thump a rhythm you can dance
and die to.
And to be shamelessly honest,
I dare ask you to burn a little brighter for me
when you wake and find that the longer I stay,
the less I stand on my own.
then it happens all over againokay, listen up:
writer's block is just
another term for neutral--
no emotions, no nothing;
yes, this is bland.
even for me.
rush the semantics,
more to the point:
i had no inspiration,
no motivation to write
until i tripped (not fell,
like former supposed love)
onto you -- stumbled upon
r FACE---- it's so sweet
BOOK. but i cant read you;
oh god. why do i still do
(Not you) this to Myself?
because we still have unfinished busine---
v.in the dew-dark moon-glow
of the star-stained night
i will sit up
eight monthseverything has ceased
inside of me
the cogs have reversed
and again i'm back
to pouring out my brain
grinding it out vein by vein
rather than bleeding out my heart-ink
and i feel like it's my mind
that holds the quill and it's
thoughts that tumble out of
this self-plagiarised mouth
i still beat for you i know i do
(you know i do)
but the only thing i do anymore
is touch old photos with bleeding
fingertips and cry when the moon
wanes to crescent because it's
and you're not
you're old like the dust in between the floorboards
of this disease-ridden, vine-entwined rib cage
that resides inside my brittle battered body
and i wish
that i could cup you in my palms
like a tiny star
but you're long gone
apologetic blood"hold still," you said and i
turned my head and shut my eyes.
i didn't want to feel your ice
fingers and your bitten down nails
playing with my insides (at least
i convinced myself i didn't, anyway.
intimacy and lust are too hard to
deal with at the same time.)
i trusted you - my hope mixed
with the blood streaming through
the veins in my eyelids, my hope that
was carved like ancient sacrifice and
an old ritual in my twig thin bones, and you
it wasn't a normal stab, not a dull
ache surrounded by seeping dark red
liquid, not the kind of stab that makes
you writhe and watch your sorry 17 years
on earth ticking in front of your eyes
like a time bomb
no - a stab that makes you see red,
a stab that feels as small as an atom
but erupts like the vibrations of the
tectonic plates shifting, and you just
i didn't look, not once, i wasn't afraid
of the gore but what if i saw you
enjoying causing me so much pain? instead
i remembered autumn
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
block/headI don't write,
- any more
I don't think I remember how to
or how to take my dry-throat swallows and let them be birds
how to turn words into things that matter, or how you
wrap up your heart like a four-cornered blanket
like a bundle on a stick before you leave town.
I don't remember how to start a sentence with "you are"
and end it in anything besides "drifting away from me".
I don't write, any more. Not even to you,
I just sit cross-legged in front of a thousand screens
and I touch my palms to the keyboard like you'll feel the heat of them,
I don't write.
Keep in Touch!
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