"There's nothing to be done."
"She's going to die."
"Would you like to say goodbye?"
PrisonerWe were teenagers the first time your skilled lips met mine.
You were winter’s cold and dusted with new-fallen snow.
The shadows that lay beneath your haunted eyes
Matched the bruises tattooed upon your ivory skin.
We were far from alone when our calloused hands met on accident.
He stepped out of the shadows and threw you to the frozen ground.
No noise escaped your gritted, cracked teeth as he beat you. Yet no
Amount of courage could hide the fear bleeding from your almond eyes.
We were barely adults the first time I met the softness of your skin.
Life radiated from your emerald eyes as your battered
Body and blood-crusted mouth moved
Against me in ways my body could not translate.
We were in the cemetery when we finally met without fear.
He was stone cold, buried six feet under a headstone. You
Were well dressed and newly wealthy. We both were newly
Divorced. Finally free from bruises, you proposed upon his grave.
PeaceOh my oldest of friends, I feel scared. Nothing is silent on this winter’s night.
Not the monsters screaming in my mind. Not the shutters slamming against the house.
Not the winds howling through this drafty attic bedroom. Not even Momma and Daddy.
No, not even them. They’re louder than ever tonight, old friend.
When they fight like this my mind’s monsters grow louder and harder to ignore.
They howl and snarl and spit lies and deceits. They say that Momma hates me.
They say that Daddy doesn’t love me. They say that, if he did, he wouldn’t let her hit me.
They are lying to me, right, old friend? Please say the monsters are lying.
Oh my dearest of friends, I cannot sleep. Will your lullaby arms sing me a song?
To me, your embrace is comfort embodied. Your voice is like a gentle breeze.
You bring me such peace, dear. Peace: it is something this place so rarely allows.
I am seldom safe and sound here in this hostile house, where Momma reigns with abuse.
Lost PermanenceAnother now rests on your side of my bed,
But some nights I still toss and turn for your arms,
Even though my side of your bed grew cold long ago.
NightmareYou and your spider-limbs are clockwork predictable.
Every night, upon the hour of my sleeping, your
Rubber soles step from Morpheus’s chariot
Into the once-serene sanctuary of my mind.
Your lanky limbs upcycle into my sleep cycle then,
As your ebony fog creeps into the land of my mind,
Darkness settles. Darkness always settles with the coming
Of you, no matter how white-hot your skin is. For the rest
Of the night all I can see is your humanoid arachnid
Form stalking the outer edges of my dreamscapes.
Every dream drives images of you deeper and deeper
Into the soil of my subconscious, freezing it to permafrost.
All revitalization has been sucked out of REM. It has been
Replaced with a cool poison that drives me to insomnia.
Some weeks I wish I could live eternal without sleep.
Some days I truly believe I’ll never need sleep again.
Those times reveal the darker side of this twisted hunt.
These days your faceless face haunts me even in
My waking hours. Your gangly midnight sh
CompanionMy life with you is a series of days and nights
Spent on an infinite highway, traveling without a destination.
We pass sheets and bodies melded and molded
Into figure eight, jug handle infinities.
Yet we continue on our journey,
Fingers intertwined and resting on the clutch
Of our broken-down, rusted-out, manual, imported car.
The interstate rolls on and on and on and on
And some days my heart feels like a blown-out
Tire. Other days I feel like a blown out tire crushed
Beneath the heel of an 18-wheeler pulling 90
Sans regard for anyone’s safety, not even the driver’s.
Travel-weary and bone-tired, there are days when I want to slam
The car door in your face and hitchhike my way back home.
Then I remember how far I have traveled.
How far we have traveled. Together.
How desperately I do not want to go back
There, back to that place from whence we came.
I remember how I have come to enjoy watching the lines
Of your face change with the terrain, tempo, mood, speed,
Of our travel
LifetimesI saw you first on the bank of the Thames, and instantaneously fell in love for eternity. You were picking flowers for your father's grave. He had died three months earlier in the dead of winter. You were married then to a boar of a man, and there were bruises on your arms from when he grabbed you and didn't let go. You and I had a tumultuous affair in the bushes and brush all along our little bend of the Thames. It lasted until autumn came, and you could no longer sneak away under the guise of picking flowers for your father. I was a wanderer then, and you assured me that I would find another. I assured you I would not. I was right.
I saw you again on the bank of the Volga. I was fishing in the shallows, ankle deep in frigid water. You were on the deck of a ship sailing past. Ours eyes met and held until you were out of sight for the rest of that lifetime.
You appeared to me next in the form of my best friend's arranged bride on the bank of the Ganges. Neither of us
ColdThe sun is rising and you're staring out of your bedroom window at the horizon. He's still asleep in bed, cupping the void where you're supposed to be. The blankets are twisted around his legs, his torso, his arms, creating a great maze of fabric. The sheets are pulled up here and there, revealing a restless night, a restless sleeper.
The morning beams are hitting your pale face in hues of orange and yellow and you're staring at the cars passing beneath you. The rush hour traffic is just beginning, heralding Monday and the start of another paycheck cycle. He should be getting up soon, beating the cry of his alarm, just like he always does. He'll forget to turn it off, as always, and it'll begin to ring while he's singing old ragtime tunes in the shower. Only you won't be there to turn it off for him. He won't have you to kiss goodbye after he's donned his suit. You are not in the bedroom you two once shared. You are in a hotel room, and there is another man in this bed, one who also cl
planesWe are parallel planes in the sky, flying toward the night. Intersection means certain death, but we'll meet again upon landing at dusk.
GoneMom's gone. I'm coming to get you.
The words bounce around my empty skull for a moment, refusing to sink in. Gone? How can she be gone? I just saw her this morning. She made me coffee. Kissed my cheek. Waved goodbye as I hopped into the car. She can't be gone.
I slump helplessly against the tiled wall of the bathroom, and slide to the floor, not caring what exotic diseases may lie in the grout. On instinct, I pull up a blank message, and text the only person I can.
Within minutes the door swings open, and the pulse of the party breathes life into the vacuum of the bathroom. It's Kara. She's covered in glitter and body paint, wearing nothing but a neon bra and a white mini skirt. She raises an eyebrow at my dazed expression. She's clearly not happy that I pulled her away from the party.
"What happened to you?"
I pull up my brother's text, and hand her my Blackberry. She sighs at the message. Kara's never been one for emotion.
"Didn't they say she had a few more months?"
I nod. N
LessonsIn forty-seven minutes I will be twenty-one years old and my throat is tight with this notion
that every passing moment is a boat taking me further from the boy on the side of the road.
I am terrified of the swelling tide of time, the ripples I will create,
the creases that will be etched into my face
without the laughter lines I know he would have left and
one day someone will ask me how many siblings I have and I will hesitate
because he will be so distant and I can feel it coming.
I never intended to swim without him, but
I am drowning under the weight of pocket-stone-people,
the ones I love who he has never met and won't ever meet
and its forty-four minutes until I turn twenty-one when I realize the relentlessness of this;
how I will age away from him and I am disgusted with myself, with his ashes on the bookshelf,
with this world that keeps making mistakes that can't be fixed.
Twenty one years old and I am a semi-colon, a shuddering pause on the floor,
remembering the time I broke
Dear Homophobic ParentsDear homophobic parents,
How the fuck do you think it makes me feel
When you walk out of the room crying
Because you can’t stand the thought of something I can’t control.
I’ll tell you that it makes my insides burn.
The living room feels like a closet.
Suffocating, and yet I can breathe fine.
I am choking on the air,
Polluted by your homophobic slurs.
Making uneducated guesses about things you know nothing about.
Someone ought to teach you to look shit up
Before you go about, shouting your false claims to the world.
My very existence is an error.
Some messed up chemical defect that went wrong,
I don’t belong
I am the Titanic,
To you I am supposed to be perfect
I am supposed to be straight, and happy, and fine.
But I am so very far from fine,
When my lungs are filling up with water,
Your words are an ice berg,
And I am sinking fast.
beautiful.i hate my stretchmarks
the vertical the horizontal the ones running miles down my arms
stripes on a circus tent
my body is a freak show
75 cents a ticket
they are the bars on a cage
trapping me inside this prison cell of flesh
(not letting me run away
from all i once was)
reminding me that i am
still that little girl who
was told that she had too
much weight in her stomach
and in her thighs
to be called beautiful
my stretchmarks are the debris from when i tried to collapse upon myself
tried taking up less space
because beautiful is small beautiful is skinny
diets upon diets
because i've been told that
i am only worth the sharpness of my collarbone
why i never wrote you a poem.last summer i tried
to use the words that you fell asleep to
to write you a love song but
every time i tried
my fingers froze up.
i failed the test of describing you
in a paragraph
in a sentence
in a word
there is nothing in my head adequate enough
to describe how you look
on the train station platform
when you smile at me.
i can tell you that
my heart climbs into my throat and
my body prickles with heat and
everything disappears, for just a moment, but
the thing i cannot describe
your mouth caresses my name
like it’s the most beautiful sound
it’ll ever know,
like it understands me perfectly,
you are not made of verses.
you have no meter.
you are not written in stanzas
that i understand
and i find myself captivated
at how beautifully complex
your language is.
you say i’m the mesmerizing one, but, baby,
you've stumped me.
you have left a girl,
a person who wants to build their life
girls that photosynthesizeI.
i asked my mother to buy me sweetener,
and she said "no," and she said "no,
sugar is better for you it's more natural"
so i shrug and i clamp my teeth over
my tongue and sew my mouth closed
and i steal sweet n' low
from the pizza place
my friends watch me pick at my lettuce,
a rabbit-food-lunch that makes me sick
to my stomach, and when i run to the
bathroom during science class they
follow me and ask what i ate for breakfast.
i say "waffles" because they can't know
i won't let them stop me
my therapist asks me if i think i'm sick
and i'm not, i'm strong, but i can't be
not here not here, and the $$$$$$$$
are ticking away as i consider my answer
so i say "yes" and she asks me what
i will become and i say "better"
because that's all they want to hear
my dietitian sets up a rough meal plan
and she says i won't gain weight on it
somehow i trust this woman with art
on the walls of her office and i pick
through the day in corn-kernel bites,
Was Beauty, Now BeastComing back again, the same situation,
Everything has changed due to my perpetration.
Beauty used to be in every word that I speak,
But I spat so much poison, that I can barely squeak!
I used to write a fantasy and now I'm simply dreamless,
I'm struggling with this sickness, it leaves me solely listless,
Or maybe I'm just soulless, my eyes are milky blind,
Where once I saw the beauty; I only see the grind
It should be a crime, a poet falling low,
The world has lost an artist; it gained a rapper though.
But all I have is acid, recriminating bile,
My style is simply vile; I've lost the will to smile.
But maybe if I try, I might get something back.
I guess I need to stop the hate to put me back on track.
Why I DanceI dance as if I am sick,
And the movement is medication.
As if getting up in the morning just to practice is the only motivation
To stay awake.
Because well- worn soft shoes
Feel like home.
The world is cold, and lonely.
But when I dance, there is a fire inside my heart, warm and lively.
I feel like a bird,
Like I am able to fly as high as I want.
Gravity, I taunt
As I laugh in its face.
Because the Earth was never a place
Because leaping across dance floors,
Allows me to soar
Higher than I could in my dreams.
Hard shoe dances make me feel powerful.
Like a raging storm at sea.
My stamps, and clicks are crashing waves.
But I am also the sea breeze.
Strong and graceful.
When I dance I feel like I am trading
Secrets with the universe.
My head is clear,
And my will power is strong.
I am a force to be feared.
On bad days,
The rhythms of hard shoes sound like a heart- beat.
A life line.
And I’ll dance until my feet bleed
Just to feel something.
Because dancing is the only thing
HetaliaxDepressed!Reader:Self-Inflicted AchromaticHetalia x Scary! Depressed! Reader: Self-Inflicted Achromatic
I want to be a person just like you, don't you see?
I want to be a person who is still being "me"
A tired sigh escaped your lips. You were just so damn tired. The other countries said that you, (f/n) or (c/n), was scarier than Russia himself. But of course, you have lived 2500 years with wars and bloodshed always trailing after you. You just really want to be happy. But all those wars and blood imprinted on your mind, you really just released off a dark (a/c) aura and a stoic atmosphere.
It really would be nice but I'm paying a price
'Cause I'd really, not be me and that would not suffice
You asked yourself, "I know my face doesn't show my pain. But isn't it obvious in my eyes? I'm lonely and hurt" You rubbed your numb (s/c) wrist, yesterday's cuts still had a colorless ache to it. You picked your silver knife, twirling it around watching the others argue. The said knife is the one you also use to cut yourself.
A dream which