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Similar Deviations
There are days where she
forgets how to fly;
wings all tangled up in
misguided heartstrings.

"There is nothing wrong with me,"
she insists,
"Nothing at all.
I just can't seem to
grow up."

The clock strikes
midnight -
she's nothing but
misled faith,
broken trust,
and withering pixie dust.
- and straight on 'til morning.

I don't want to grow up; I want to stay with Peter in Neverland forever.
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People will let you down.
You’ll love them, anyways.

Don’t let anyone romanticize
It won’t be beautiful
when somebody breaks your heart
the first time
or the second
or the eighteenth.

Pain is not beautiful.
Maybe on paper
but not inside of you
not in numbers.

A million people
kill themselves
every year
but you’re still here,
and that's important.

You're doing something

My father told me
“Be selfish –
if you don’t take care of you
who will?”

I liked to think
that this is the reason
he ignored me
growing up.

(I’m sorry.
I don’t have good advice
on this one.
Because the people who let you down,
you’ll find,
are the ones promised to save you.
Are the ones promised to love you
and protect you
and I’ll tell you,
nothing quite hurts
like waking up in the morning
to the police in your doorway.
Nothing quite hurts
like being eleven
and hearing a cop say
“Poor girl had to live with a drunk;
That man should be ashamed”
and not being able
to disagree.)

Getting over it hurts the most.
You’ll think you have
then, deep into the night,
you’ll remember
and the tears will come
faster than you can fight them.

Getting over it hurts
because you can’t.

(If you have, tell me how.


There will be a time
you’ll reach out for a friend
or a lover
or a parent
or anyone at all
and your hand will touch
empty space.

They’re not dead,
just gone.

You’ll have pushed them away.

Often, I’ve found there’s no sadder story
than the one a stranger tells.

You’ll find yourself feeling sorry
for a man on a subway
at three AM
with two kids
and nowhere to go,

or the girl with no shoes
and a dirty face
her chin on her knees
and her eyes cast away
because she’s too afraid
to even make
eye contact.

You’ll find yourself
feeling sorry
for someone long gone;
you may hear how Vincent Van Gogh
once ate yellow paint
because he thought it would get
the happiness
inside of him.

And something about it
will strike you as the saddest story
you’ve ever heard
because he wasn’t crazy,
he just wanted to be loved.

(And you can’t say
that you don’t feel the same.)

You may find yourself in tears
you may find your heart heavy
(and it’s okay)
for somebody
you never knew.

Somebody will tell you:
“A fifteen year old girl killed herself
because of cyberbullying.”

Somebody will tell you:
“There are only 3,000 tigers
left on Earth.”

Somebody will tell you:
“A white cop raped six black women
and got away with it.”

Never mind that they posted her address
online, and called her family after,
saying that she deserved to die.

Never mind that there were
100,000 tigers in the wild
one hundred years ago.

Never mind that one woman
tried fighting back
and they arrested her
for assaulting a police officer.

You will say, with a sigh:
“I’m used to it.”

And the saddest part of all is,
you will be.

at some point,
your ex will call you annoying.

At some point,
somebody will call you weird
somebody will look at you
and their nose will wrinkle
and they’ll say “Wow.
What a freak.”

Don’t smile and
don’t say “Thank you.”

The world isn’t cruel,
it’s the people in it,
and you’re better than that.

Scream at them,
get angry;

Let them know
that you love yourself enough
to fight back.

You’ll learn that
there’s nothing worse
than the tears in a child’s eyes
the first time they’re yelled at
because it has to happen
but it can't,
not to a kid.

Maybe you’ll see it.
Maybe you’ll feel yourself
extending an arm
but it’s too late.

The innocence
is already gone
You’ll be reaching for something
that is no longer there.

Somebody close to you
will die.
They’ll die far away
by themselves
and it will be awful.

After, a friend will say,
“It’s so terrible
that they had to die alone.”

And you'll agree,

and I’m sorry,
but we all die alone.
Advice, from me to you. For the hard days.
Please, don't forget that I will always love every single one of you.
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You have cataloged your scars
like your body is a library-

to be read through &
learned from.

You think of
all the little boys
whose greedy fingers
your pages.

You are angry-

cared for you

& breaking
your spine.

They left you
on a shelf
to gather dust.

& why
should you ever
forget that?
Secret Series.

Anonymous secret: "Sometimes, when I’m alone I like to think of the ways I’d greet the people I’ve hated in the future… Sometimes it's not even a greeting."
More can be found here:

I know that sometimes it's hard to forgive the people who have wronged us, believe me I do. And we shouldn't just forget it, but for the sake of our own physical and mental health--we should move on. For every time you've fallen and bruised your knees--those bones have become that much stronger. You can walk away, don't let anger and hate consume you.
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it’s a need to feel the suns golden fingers
teasing figure eights along my back,
& the wind on my cheeks.

i must have been
a bird in some past life,
a swallow or a hummingbird.
because, i swear on some nights
i can feel the growing pains of an atlas
ready to burst through my skin like wings.

i just want to be


"I feel guilty that I can’t wait to leave my family and move away."

More can be found here: [link]

Feel free to submit a secret at any time! :)
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Every morning,
she wakes up to a
hollow chest & stormy,
red rimmed eyes.

It's so easy to be in love
with being in love;
swallowing fake truths
& sincere lies.

But her heart—
it forgot how to smile
two years ago,
because no one can tell
the difference between
imitations & reality.

please find me;
I'm lost between the cracks of
dying stars."

Desperate to breathe
yet wondering how it would feel
to drown,
she's never belonged
in this universe.
Or any other universe, for that matter.
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it seems that by now I’ve been diagnosed
with a mild case of weightlessness, mindless
drifting past empty homes and the emptier people
that purchased them.  I remember conversations

with you about existentialism
and the almost intricate fabric of my mind and
everything in between, and you-- the way you
paused before making a point as
the words defined themselves in your head:

I remember the day I told you I was God.
Creator of all things unimportant, trapped
in the body of a girl with nothing left to give, you
believed me

it must be a beautiful place
inside your head, with a world
that revolves around hope and expectations
the way it was supposed to; all
storybook-perfect like the
wars promise we’ll one day

[I’d like to think that every great leader
once cried themselves to sleep wondering
if they’d ever mean anything and
did things to stand out like smoking
or drinking or pretending to be someone
they’re not and every morning they’d tilt
their head in the mirror trying to find the angle
where things just looked “right,” before deciding
they were worth more than that,

just to know I’ve got somewhere to go]

to whom it may concern,
forget me as soon as you can. replace me
with the constellations in the sky
the shimmer of the waves and the
gossamer webs tying you down
to a life you weren’t ready for;

people keep trying to save me with things like
self-preservation and religion and social
obligations and novels about all the ways
I should be ashamed of myself and
The Path to fix it
 (step one: become someone new
  step two: repeat)

I feel like I lost my voice on
all these people who don’t understand me,
proclaiming these words I’ve said
a million times before because
I still cannot hear them. adulthood
is slowly going deaf and calling it wisdom,

I guess it’s about time
I grew up.
I'm trying out new things because I've been frustrated with my writing for a while. Still not quite happy with this.

true story: i once told a boy i was God and he believed me
truer story: people keep wanting to fix me like i'm broken
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the sun did not
kiss my skin
yesterday, he slept

showed his
face around noon
and then went back
to bed; the
earth exhaled
his head is in the god damn clouds
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I screamed,

"There is nothing
wrong with me, not a damn

I wanted to believe
the big dipper on my arm
meant something more
than sun marks & kisses.

But, how can I trust words
that slip through my teeth
as easy as breathing
when this star
has only ever learned
how to     f
much like my writing.
I'm dizzy.
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I can't burn the street down, the tar will fill our lungs,
I can't fix the bridges, or the bolts bedded in our tongues.
I can't explain the constant, buried deep beneath the rose,
with all the other things I broke; death and all erodes.
I'm Kate.
I'm 26 years old and ... fucking it all up.

I've let my training kick in and now I find it impossible to open up to people. I've lost my closest friends, my partner, and myself, somewhere in that.

I am so proud and happy to be back on deviantart, and particuarly to be running #BurdenedHearts, but some nights I just get lonely. and I want to talk to people.. so say hi, and lets try and find some common ground.
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i have a buildup
of black holes
suffocating my arteries,
having swallowed down
the bitter taste of too many
girls with galaxies traveling
the length of their spines.

i ate them in mouthfuls,
gaping & sad like a binge
reaching for the skies-
unable to hold them all in.

i don’t think the universe
is as vast
& wondrous
as it used to be,
between the
intercostal spaces
of my ribs;

i am hungry.

& with a collection
of moon sighs
as a reminder
in my pockets,
i will just have to learn
how to calm this swollen
indigo pulse
                    while eating.
i don't know what to say about this one.
i'm just going to go hide now because i don't like anything i write anymore.
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