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Similar Deviations
Once there was a young girl who believed in three things: breathing, dying, and true love. Three basic things, that shouldn't be too difficult. What she didn't realize was that they are all intertwined. We breathe to escape death, while we also breathe to die. Then true love gives us breath, but true love lost causes us to die even slower and painfully so. No, she did not know it then but she most certainly does now; for she has breathed and loved and died all at once and then altogether. Inhaling only to exhale, breathing only to love, and loving only to die.
a short little piece of prose on a Sunday night, feels just right
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When the stars collapsed--


           Chilled, your smile
            w  a  r  m  e d                                       

                   t.--As you loved the word 'super-
                  nova' even if by definition it was
                  the death of something beautiful.
                    We held conversations between
                   grains of sand; s l i p p i n g
                       through my fingers like
                        falling stars in mid-
Title: "With your love, slipped through my hands."
I might revisit this.
It feels off somehow. :/

Written for 'Poetry Scream's Prompt Contest'. ---> [link]

Featured: [link] [link]
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She left galaxies on his pillowcase
where she slept the night before
of make up colors,
shimmer, shadow,
smudged and smeared,
blurred by silent tears
- alive...
the stars leaked out with the saline –
along with the residue of dreams
that she never meant to have.

Chips of polish decorate his bed sheets,
rogue satellites
from her chewed and broken nails,
after scratching at the too-low ceiling
and his too-close back
while she slept fitfully,
searching desperately for space.
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she dances like a raindrop,
collapses on the ground,
and all of her bones shatter,
made from thin, liquid glass,
her voice ripples on the surface
and it screams
the soft syllables pirouetting on your eardrums
her fingertips tapping
can you hear them?
they are cotton balls
being dropped on the asphalt
can you hear them?
(it's the wind carrying her feet across the air)
and she dances like a raindrop.
you can catch her
and she can shatter in your palms.
it's not about anything. i just wrote it and it sucks bootyhole
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there's something about those little broken
dreamer girls with misproportionate promises
and lingering whispers,
who walk like angels, lost, and trying
to find a way back home;
whose hearts bleed abnormally loud
and resonant- those girls with
shadows like ghosts [dead and haunting],
that make them a flavor
to taint your tongue.

if you listen close, you can hear the
unraveling words that once knit the hollow space
between their bones,
you can hear their shallow sighs like
sun sets for a final time.
you can hear their ticking time bomb lungs

and you can touch their secrets, because they
wear them on their skin. not like wounds,
more like sun kisses or wispy tattoos
ingrained into who they are; you won't know
what they mean until you connect the dots
and find answers in their questioning stares.

they'd like to remain something unknown, because
they've identified the world as a disease- vile and
insidious, with the capability of sinking
underneath your flesh and changing who you are.

these girls wince like lambs, aware of
wolves at their haunches; they hide
from open sky because they remember the day
it all came tumbling down.
they steal away, for some better purpose yet to be
understood or even explained.

there's something about them- their
moony eyes and mistrusting hands, their withdrawn
ideals that reflect their wilting nature;
those girls whose thoughts tremble when given a voice,
and who have built their foundation
upon a faulty philosophy of wishes

that makes them shine like heaven;
beckoning and enrapturing, more dazzling than
even their dreams had dared
[brilliantly, brightly, right before they
blow out]
catch a falling star, put it in your pocket
never let it fade away.

(So, you guys wanted more poems about me.)

I really recommend reading this aloud, if you have the opportunity.
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She rules the heart as certainly as she rules her art,
measuring and proportioning everything
into the image of perfection. Her hands draw
and quarter the contours of any shape
she can touch with her fingers, a talent
men gladly pay to see--at which point
she pins her eyes on their features,
ready to make everything they offer
into another piece for her portfolio.
She infuses plasma into all their veins,
burning them all inside out and setting
their fiery forms into clay casts
to make the metal statues with which
she decks her atelier. I'm telling you this
because it doesn't matter
whether she looks hot or cool; if they're dry
both fire and ice burn.
Dry fire, dry ice.
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It's been awhile since I've been underwater,
so I drew myself a bath
and let the water rush itself into the tub
like blood to the brain,
as it pooled into the fiberglass basin
I felt the tides start to rise
while the pond I created began to
encase every limb,
my lips brushed against the water
in a liquidated kiss
and my blonde locks melted into the sea
as if my name were Medusa and
my strands of hair were snakes,
but my body dissolved into what it used to be,
I became the water and the water became me.
i took a bath last night for the first time in three years
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there is a thick exhaustion in the pit of my stomach, spreading to my shoulders
till they hang and to my knees until they buckle. and I will sleep for days on end,
and when I wake up I didn't really.

I hate you dear, I hate you so.

because there is so much to do, I could travel to the other side of the country and
paint a portrait of a stranger and I could sit on top of someone's roof and look at the
stars with a boy I don't want to know and I could fall asleep in his bed and listen to
him playing guitar without clothes and he'd take me out for diner and anywhere I'd
want to go and we'd have sex in his car and on the trampoline in my back yard and
we'd eat at my grandparents with Christmas and it would never be enough because
he's everything you weren't.

I think I lost myself, I think I fell out that time you ran away holding onto me and my
skin tore. I looked for her in that empty hole in your chest cavity, but all I found was
lost so long ago, and you wouldn't show me where it went because you didn't know.

and I wasn't ever there.
and you lied the night you left.
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sweeping across the snow
left me a feather
and away he goes

and away he goes
drifting up on the air
but I seem to be stuck here
melting in the cold
cannot rip my eyes from the sky
cannot get my fists to unfold
the words have frozen to our tongues
that's what happens to winter love

so you think this feather is enough to make a wing
so you try to free me from it,
but your claws only sting.
i walk away
come to regret every footfall
but I can't keep you down
because you're up
and I'm frozen to the ground

laying pale in the snow
he can soar no more
you didn't have to do that
have to fall on your own sword
cut your wings apart
to get me back home.
and as I see you freeze
I know now what it is I believe
that someone could give up everything
for love
come down to the winter
from above
do you know the secret, Bird?
learn to live with the cold
though you turn blue
the heart beats hot inside of you

I know it
for the contest from #RomanceforEveryone "winter love" [link]

- for the "blackbird's feather" prompt

-39 lines
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i want you like i want succulent strawberries dripping over a white lacy dress,
i want you like i want complete silence on a sweltering august night,
i want you like it's dead rats melting over hot gutters and then it's your hot guts on my body.

i want you and your collarbones tied to my strings of saliva,
i want you smelling like you're some wild wolverine with incisors as sharp as rose petals,
i want you broken and bleeding just so i can nourish your wounds.

i want you dangerously close and always so,
i want you angry as you are passionate,
i want you in ways i don't even understand.

i want you for completely unreasonable reasons
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