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Similar Deviations

i. 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,
inhaling intuition,
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.

i do not like being away from you even if away isn't all that far
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i pulled a napkin from the silver tin,
wiped the table clear, drops of ketchup staining the center.
i crushed the paper in my palm, felt the dampness reach the edges.

hurt cloud, she said as i let it roll across the table.


shooting baskets as the day ended,
the ball went over the backboard, disappeared into the dark.
she shrugged, then bent low, picked up pebbles.
and threw.


your poor hands, she said.  you have so many scars,
and you're still so young.  (she, younger than i, saying this)

she touched one hand, then after a pause she took the other
without looking at me.

some things take so much courage.

we sat like that for a long time,


i passed two old women by the river.
one stopped, pulled off her shoe
and shook a pebble out.

it dropped into the water
and she continued on,
limping slightly
from the absence dented into her foot.

the other had stopped a ways ahead.
she waited and said, a pebble?

the woman nodded. her whole life
having led her there, she was carried
away again.


a memory:  the night i was married,
while everyone danced and ate beneath the lights,
i kept my fingers on my bride's knee beneath the table.
the fabric of her dress and the skin beneath slid when i moved my hand.

her bone flashing white, her shape gathering in the hardness,
so white it ached, so hard it changed.

i covered my face with my other hand.
when she saw she put her hand on my knee
and we were really married


my dog stopped eating, only took morsels.  her ribs became prominent.
it made me wince to run my hand over the sharp ridge of her spine.

her belly grew, and became hard.
at the clinic, the vet knelt down to inspect her.

he pressed on her sides and stayed like that
for a minute.  she looked at me, then stared at the floor.

there is a tumor in her abdomen, it has grown quite large.
he rose, folded his hands and spoke gently.  
there is nothing we can do.

okay, i said.
something hard stuck in my throat,
kept me from swallowing.


there is one window i keep open no matter what.
it faces west, toward the river you can hear
but not see.

there is a row of stones on the windowsill,
small forms that are a relief, hard and anonymous
and ancient.

i sit and run my fingers back and forth over them.
they wobble and dance, then recover.

with a breeze,
the curtains open and close

around the stones i've found.

the stones i've kept
without knowing

sometimes things get so hard you can feel their shape, the weight of them, the way things form around them.

sometimes all you're walking on are memories.
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put me under, cover my face, stuff my lungs with your chemical lies.

if they were to take me apart,
slice open my chest,
peel back the skin keeping me whole,
they would find:

a. one heart, slowly ticking.
(they would not find anything,
but they would have to say they did.
after all, girls can't live without a heart.
they forget that i'm not the first:
a score of girls walking even though
they should have faded long ago.)

b. each rib curved so perfectly,
a shield around my lungs.
(a cage, keeping my breath from bursting
out of my skin. know that this is just me,
held together by nature,
unable to lose control of myself.)

c. two sacs of cells, nestled beside each other.
(no first-hand smoke here, no sir.
only second-hand dust, only
things i could not get rid of,
only bits of places i've been,
caught in my body.
postcards of memories i can't see.)

d. a skeleton, still and alive.
(sleeping, with blood cells being produced
in the hollows of my curves.
the rattling of my bones cannot be heard,
but if it could, my skeleton would tell you
all my secrets. it would beg you,
please don't leave me.
i never fought the monsters under my bed,
i just turned them into the skeletons in my closet,
the skeletons i wear inside of my body.)
just for the record, i know biopsies aren't done on the whole body.

i've been neglecting you guys terribly.
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heaving up a universe
is nothing on my stomach,

yet my scared molested heart
jumps out of the way.

the purge, a dark scent
unborn flowers

weeping over the pointlessness
the ache and sorrow

the filling and emptying
of a creature so profoundly

“Nothing in the world scares me as much as bulimia. It was true then and it is true now…It feels very much as if you are possessed, as if you have no will of your own but are in constant battle with your body, and you are losing. It wants to live. You want to die. You cannot both have your way. And so bulimia creeps into the rift between you and your body and you go out of your mind with fear. It is incredibly frightening when it finally sets in with a vengeance. And when it does, you are surprised. You hadn't meant this. You say: Wait, not this. And then it sucks you under, and you drown.”

-Marya Hornbacher
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it was all skinned knees
and stop signs between us.
we pushed too hard
or not hard enough.

the last star i wished upon
turned out to be a satellite,
and the last time i kissed you
really wasn't the last time.

the scent of romance- pine needles
and sawdust clung to my shoulders
where your fingers left goose flesh
when i least expected it.

i'd be tangled up in you and bed sheets
if i didn't know you better than that,
[sweetheart,] you're thunderstorms on
Saturday nights and "Why don't you stay
for awhile"
's and the infidelities
that line my cheeks.
those fucking satellites keep getting in my way.

I can't fucking write to save my life, and as soon as I admit it I choke with inspiration. I just can't win.

[Edit] ~Meztere is a pain in my ass, but finds my typos. :heart:
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Today the raindrops taste spicy
         how I've missed them.

I've a bad case of wanderlust
              And a silver sonnet skyfever,

and I want to be spinning like a planet in orbit.

The blue winterblush tiptoes onto my cheekbones
     and I realize:
                         I'm ready.
i guess i made up some of these words, but it's just the only way i could express (:
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A kiss-
Soft, tender
Upon my breast
Finding sensitivity with urgency

Hands press into my hips
Passion flowing from eager fingertips
Pressing strong into my willing flesh

He whispers hotly into flushed skin
Words falling like a kiss upon my ear
          I want you

          I need you.
Yup yup yup.
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he now resides in susurration:
shaken from our summer sheets,
flags drawn taut and shuddering,
and wispseeds rising into the light
with their dressing gowns unbuttoned,
planting onto my lips that name
i've tried to hang with himself;

on a late morning,
while folding your laundry,
i found him again and held his tongue
when he yearned to speak of love
that once transpired in his passion,
or maybe it was the infatuation
of surrealists: brown skin but touched
upon each other,

marking the insignificant with brands
of remembrance: like the crinkling of
tinfoil or the crisping of smokers' lungs
or the thought that cigarettes are only
romantic if you can witness their glow
or hear them faintly burning—

white ash rests on the dashboard
and his fingers are caked with rust
in my flashbulb drug collections:
the color of blood that's been drying
in my mouth while i try to recall how it felt
to hold someone who might have come
and remained forever breathing
if that letter had never reached my door:

blue ink reminds me of death,
black of his pupils,
and red of ghosts who awaken
when one unfolds
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After blood is spilt
May pretty flowers grow
in their memory.
I heard once that on old battlefields poppies grow. Im not sure if its true but its a nice idea.
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