Phantoms Of Another UniverseLook.
I'll tell it like it was.
Static clung to the air
like ornaments on a Christmas tree
and we were graced with the odd arced lightning.
Oh, it was cold.
I remember not seeing,
my fingers frozen off as
feeling receded from them
like waves on a beach.
how could I even be sure
the forgotten memory of a sunset
lay imprinted on my brain,
and its absence made the night
emptier than ever.
we waited for the moon to rise,
for the clouds to shift,
for the e-lec-tri-ci-ty to stop
(like lost travelers stumbling
in the desert waiting for an
oasis mirage to shatter their
we waited, questioning our existence,
questioning this formation of
questioning the light that remained
(like questioning "how in the world did
I lose that!" and it turns out you hadn't
you'd been waving it, flailing it, even,
(incredulously) in your hand)
and one year later,
one eternity l
GalateaSometimes, she is my mistressMore Like This
Sneaking in through my window and seducing me out of sleep
She keeps me up past sunrise, whispering sweet promises in my ear
Silencing me with her smoldering passion, stripping me until inspiration strikes
She makes me sing, until the sheets are slathered in a thick skin of poetry
Sending shivers up my spine and igniting my senses with her ghostly fingers
She is a lover and a shadow, nowhere to be seen when I wake
Sometimes, she is my psychosis
Suffocating and strong, I can do nothing but submit to her grasp
She seethes, like a snake constricting around me until my sight blurs to smoke
Slowly, she consumes me with sick reverence and searing obsession
She stifles me because she refuses to be restrained, yet I long for her kiss
Severing haggard breaths from my lips, leaving me stunned and aching
She is a succubus and a nightmare, haunting me
Sometimes, she is my saint
Stifling sobs against my shoulder, shaking me until my tears start to fall
She has so much
How Not to Tell a StoryAfter being on DeviantArt for a few years now, I've noticed patterns in people's stories. Patterns, that I can't say I've ever seen until I started using the internet. I believe that's because these kind of patterns are thoroughly unprofessional. The pattern in short is this:More Like This
Character = victim
Plot = bad things happening to said victim
Maybe this sounds harsh. It's not if you understand that is ALL there is to these stories. They take any character, hurl them into a tragedy and that's it.
Let's get this straight: We do not know your character well enough to care about them yet. No matter how bloody and gutty their injuries are, no matter how many of their family members are deceased, no matter what their boyfriend did to them, no matter what kind of disease they have, WE. DO. NOT. CARE!!!!!
These kind of things are sad in themselves, but WHO is this person we're supposed to feel so horrible for? Establish THAT. It should be your absolute FIRST priority: no exceptions.
No more pasting
Yes, I Have a PenisYes, I Have A PenisMore Like This
Do not assume (if I hold the door for you),
that I am making a statement
about your inabilities
to open the door for yourself.
If you hold it for me,
I'll say 'thankyou'.
Do not assume (if I pay for the meal),
that I am underestimating
your earning capacity
as a woman.
If you invite me out for a meal,
Do not assume (if I defend your rights),
that I am belittling
the attempts that you have made
to defend your rights yourself.
If you defend my rights,
I'll consider you human.
red leaves and Robert Frost.When I was young, my virginity was sacred. Entire religions pray over it and my father bought a gun so long as it meant protecting it.More Like This
We throw away half of our refrigerator each week meanwhile, 24,000 people die of starvation every day.
Hardest part is, sometimes wasting things can't be helped.
At the bus stop, before I could drive, boys would ask for my phone number while I tugged up the neck of my shirt. Asked me how old I was while I crossed my legs under my skirt.
I told them I had a boyfriend even when it wasn't true, because they'll always respect another man more than my disinterest.
Hearing "I love you" for the first time is like getting hit by a train and only feeling the angel as they pull you up to Heaven.
People who are manic can jump off roofs or sell their house to buyers who don't exist.
For me, it was fucking six guys in four days and spending $150 in three.
That wasn't good enough, though, so instead of help all I got was a smiley-face sticker and long, quiet c
New Years (PrussiaXReader)It was New Years eve and you’d agreed (foolishly) to let your boyfriend invite his two friends over for the celebration. He’d promised it would be fun and said the more the merrier, but still! Well, it was your own fault for allowing it and besides, they’d probably get too drunk and pass out anyway.More Like This
You were just finishing up in the kitchen, the red apron that was tied around your neck bearing the brunt of the traces of ingredients. Gilbert was ‘helping’ too by sneaking a taste of whichever nibbly things you created and telling you how awesome they were no matter how many times he got clobbered by the various skillets that were lying around.
He cheered when he heard the doorbell ring and ran off to get tackled by his friends. After greeting each other loudly, they swaggered into the room, completing their Bad Touch Trio, as they called themselves, with identical smirks on their faces.
“Hola chica, I hope you’re going to take as much care of us
UntitledOnce united, fusioned,More Like This
A mix of proton and electron
We shone brighter than the sun
Like a powerful neutron star
I loved you more than I loved myself
And though I never trust somebody else
I had your soul and you had mine
We were two hearts combined
But somehow I don't know us anymore
What is it that we're looking for
We lost control of our light
And suddenly we shone too bright
Too much of everything, of you and me
Too much identical chemistry
Stars glow in a supernova
Right before their life is over
You were too selfish to realize
You weren't the only sick girl in disguise
I was too proud to tell you why
And my throat got sore from gulping your lies
I lost my smile when you lost your personality
We were too alike, something I couldn't be
I am myself, individual and free
Now try and tell gravity not to make these tears fall
I wanted to explain everything but couldn't say anything at all
Sometimes I loathe myself and I hate you too
Then I wonder if I'm good enough, or better than yo
LingerieEvery woman owns one garmentMore Like This
that remains tucked away,
saved for special occasions
when it will be seen.
It is almost always midnight
black, or blood red, and
covered in lace, or made
of mesh, soft and delicate
as the skin it covers.
Such things should be hidden,
lest the owner be labeled
as something other than "lady."
It has a power we can't
control, one that transforms
denim and cotton clad
ragdolls into Barbies,
perfectly proportioned plastic,
smooth and flawless hourglasses
that turn on command.
We groan and flinch
as satin strings pull us
apart and together,
and heartstrings are plucked
as we scrutinize our reflection;
we are not diamonds
with perfect exteriors--
we are fractured, as we
realize hourglasses can be exchanged
for quartz watches that are
faster, more convenient,
incapable of failure
made by the obsolete.
HetaliaxReader- Airport- RomanoYou crept up on the brown haired Lovino and hugged him from behind. "Ciao!" You squealed.More Like This
"HOLY SHIT! WHO IS BEHIND ME?! ANTONIO, YOU BASTARDO, IS THAT YOU?!" Lovino yelled, drawing attention from the crowds of people in the airport.
"Lovy, it's me! _____!" you cried, "And stop yelling! You're drawing attention to us…"
"Bella!" Lovino turned around, picking you up and spinning you around, "I came to pick you up at the airport!"
You chuckled. "Yes, I see. You know I could have gotten a cab though, right…"
"Fuck that… Those bastardos would have given you a shit deal you know."
"So you always say." You rolled your eyes, ignoring Lovy's ungentlemanly swearing.
Lovino set you down on the ground and pulled you close, setting his nose on top of your hair, breathing in the scent of you, "I did miss you, Bella…"
"I missed you too…" you whispered and tilted your chin up to kiss him. You reached a hand up to his hair, absently tugging on his little curl.
Lovino stiffened immediately, "Dammit, ___
Noticed in CommittingI started committing suicides. They were small at first, but more grandiose as the months passed.More Like This
At first, I came up with basics: wrist slashing, hanging, overdose, jumping off a building, and stepping off in front of bus. They were all very mundane, really, and if not done properly you just end up living very, very painfully. It was after those routine ways to snuff oneself that I began to get creative.
There was going into a biker bar nude and starting fights with drunk bikers. And when I say "fights", I mean with a knife in my hand. That was a fun night. Everyone was freaked out and angry at the same time. They all wanted to kill me, but they didn't want to touch me either. Eventually, though, they did.
Oh, another good one was sneaking into one of those giant dump trucks at a quarry and letting them dump tons of excavated rocks on me. The driver of the loader always sees you just as it's too late and tries to stop the load.
We Have News On Your DaughterIt's early DecemberMore Like This
We sit in our daughters room
Looking over her possessions
Praying she will be home soon
Just in time for Christmas
Her presents are under the tree
Ready to create some more
Of those beautiful memories
It's now mid December
Terror has frozen our tears
As our angels face is slowly
Beginning to disappear
Our lives are a landfill
For unimaginable pain
As her baby brother weeps
Wanting his sister back again
It's now late December
The festivities have past
As searches for our princess
Are slowly scaled back
A knock on the front door
The endless fall to the ground
"We have news on your daughter
A body has been found"
how you can manage to know so muchshe's barely an inch taller - but still taller -More Like This
squinting at the horizon line and heaving tobacco smoke
through resin coated lungs that should belong to a
fourty three year old smoker, not an eighteen year old
she laughs the loudest when others cast glances
and hushed whispers
and never misses the chance to tell you
she couldn't possibly give less
of a shit
she likes convenience store mints;
the round white ones you'd find
at the bottom of grandma's purse that tasted like
dust and chemically sweetened perfume,
she went to a school where "dyke"
was spat like poison at her feet
but knew exactly what to say when three girls
cornered her, knew exactly how to throw her
words like fists
she gets hives from cats and grass and
practically anything outside her door
so she spends most of her time inside,
only leaving to have another
she listens to tool and radiohead
and smokes half a joint before bed to help her sleep
but she still doesn't; not for long
and she twitc
tea.hot steam fadesMore Like This
from the cup
dense with the seasons
inhaled by the morning
as the city wakes
itself to a brightness
of milk and honey
I smile and bring the
sun's fragrant warmth
to my lips
the eyepatch and the handcuffs his hands have promisedMore Like This
to wipe off every fingerprint
your last lover left on you
he has sworn he will
wear gloves, when he needs to,
and pay attention to the instructions on the boxes
"this side up"
and you have sworn
you will try to let him
i hear your bodies whispering these things to each other
when you think i'm asleep
and i've seen your nervous window-glances
when he is mumbling oaths into your neck
you still cherish the swirling bruises
because you think they're all you deserve
TopazTopazMore Like This
Rare blue butterfly wings flickering, between
our little girl's elegant cornflower gloved hands, her
husky colored eyes greet the ocean's tide.
Cardinals singing their morning chorus, with
your Tsailes' soft melodies filling the woods, where
bubbling brooks groan in the foreground.
Butterscotch melting on my burning lips, your kiss
Honeycomb sweetness embracing my tongue, you entwine
Hot, soothing peach tea sliding down my throat, you slide.
Intimate fingers through buffalo hair, your chest
Reckless abandon grasped within your kisses, my breast
Breathless confessions as our hips join as one.
You're a constant volcano of rock and ash,
With my lava continually erupting inside you.
Your colors and mine fuse into precious jewels.
FirefliesGoldenrodMore Like This
fireflies erratically sign their names
inside a jar that once held pickled beets.
On a Georgian night,
katydids screech chamber music
Mozart forgot to write
on his five staffed bars.
The music reminds me of the tart
taste of grapefruit seeping slowly into
my mouth, and I swallow it with delight.
But the world becomes a jar
into which I scribble my name,
as if writing it will somehow
make me free.
You.You told me onceMore Like This
you would break my stars,
tear them from the sky and devour them
s l o w l y.
I neglected to tell you
they all had their own feelings
and your bruises form my own constellation
in the quiet valleys of my firefly skin.
I am the milky way.
And you, my sweet-
You are nothing more
than a dead star
with a pretty name.
the becoming. (acrostic)incandescence will fall upon your sweet serenade fingers atMore Like This
breaking tides of rigid seas a thousand oceans away from
eternally falling waters; a water-fall free of falling hearts.
leave your memories in the high skies to freeze and fade
into gossamer wanderers of the night sky. so let it all go. we'll be
evanescent - we'll burn & die & blow away, but the falling dust of you&i will begin a
vagabond dance so you can breathe faith into me, and bring me back down to
earth once more.
No Change, No ChangeA long time ago, you were young.More Like This
Young and eager and ready and now
it's no longer a long time ago.
Less time and counting.
You think maybe you'd like to be
a little bit like a long time ago, but you are
too late, too late for regrets.
Now where will you go?
It was yesterday,
and you were still sifting through the past,
struggling, struggling to remember yourself.
Today, you look back and think:
oh, how lonely, lonely.
You are that you are,
and you refuse to change for yourself. Still,
people need people more than they need pride,
and you need yourself to change.
You are not
too late, too late for regrets,
even if you haven't realized it yet.
Tomorrow, you will be
all the things you are still not, and
tomorrow, you'll look back and think:
oh, not lonely, lonely anymore.
Tomorrow, you'll give your future self
the choice you once had and left behind.
One year later,
you'll be that you'll be,
a little bit like a long time ago, and
one year later, you'll look forward and think:
Somewhere.One year had passed.More Like This
The sky was still a radiant blue
A radiant blue, peppered with carelessly scattered white clouds.
The sky was an ocean, which extended over her whole world, so close, that she could have touched it with her finger, so far, that not even her dreams could reach it, only riddled with white isles.
She wanted to merge into that ocean. To be one with the blue. And, more than everything else, to forget.
Wind brushed her hair and played with it, let it spin in sudden fury, caressed it lightly.
She wanted to follow the wind. She wished she could go where the wind would blow her and leave everything behind. What would life be like, eternally driven forth, without ever looking back?
How simple it was, when there was only ahead. And no behind.
Was that what made freedom?
From the waves of the ocean birds arose, dark silhouettes, like fish under the sheltering surface. Secured by the infinite blue, carried by the wind.
She wanted to be a bird.
She wanted wings to break o
Death DayThe worst part of death is the wake.More Like This
Being forced to stare at the cold, limp form of your loved one seems to drive all thoughts of their vibrant lives from your mind. People come from all over, ogling, watching...
why did you come to see him dead? where were you when he was alive?
Then, they close the casket.
You don't want them to close the casket,
just wait, Dad will get up
But they do.
After that, all hopes of your loved one rising up are dead as well.
he's not playing a trick
One year later, that hope has been burning.
there's a white van coming down the street, maybe dad's coming home
You look for signs of their return
Mom still has his razor, so he'll be coming along...
By the second year, the realization is starting to sink in.
it's been too long, he'd never hurt us with a joke
You realize that you're losing your memories of your loved one.
At year three, you've forgotten the sound of their voice.
how did he laugh?
By the fourth death day
SaprophyticShe was a girl that knew how to photosynthesize. She was nothing to look at; unless hair the consistency of wet noodles and eyes that were reminiscent of faded denim were something.More Like This
She always found it strange that there was nothing blue that could be considered repulsive, except her eyes.
It was January and cold, as expected of the season. The sky was gray and there was far too much snow on the ground. As she walked, she kicked it out of the way with the toe of her father's hunting boots. She was the first to wear them.
She toed slush out of her path until she reached the door of a pawnshop. By this time, she no longer needed to look up in order to find the alley and then the door. At least the heavy clouds made the grime innocuous.
"You do know that you can't pawn beer," he said before she had fully stepped across the threshold.
"So I've been told." She wiped her boots on the floor as he scowled at her. His eyebrows were only the slightest bit too thick, especially when he had such a
MomentsIt's strange how time passesMore Like This
After a relapse....
One year later seems like a lifetime
Almost an unreachable moment
As if locked in an infinite cycle
The moment of weakness passes sweetly
And quickly enough, the rush
But then, the realisation hits
Of your weakness and frailty,
The real hit.....
And you say to yourself
Quietly and anguished,
Like you had before,
Probably a week before, sometimes a day
Gotta try again
Then begins the tally, the days move past
Not everything is a quick fix,
When you're occupied they move in a flash
But when you're alone with nothing to do
You find yourself biting your nails
Thinking, not even thinking
But subconsciously about IT
But then you think
One more day, be strong... you can do it
Why? you answer back
Isn't life for fun,
YOU CAN'T RESIST - YOU SCREAM
That moment seams the longest
As you grapple with yourself
But then you tell yourself,
Give it one year later, and you'll be free
We all need
A Year Later12 months later,More Like This
Will I forget
That there was once
A person I adored?
52 weeks later,
Will I remember
What it was like
To be held in your arms?
365 days later,
Will your warmth
Still accompany me
Like those cold nights we've had together?
8,765 hours later,
Will you still
Hold my hands
Until they're the same temperature?
31,556,926 seconds later,
Will there still be "us"?
A year later,
Will I remember
I had once fallen in love?
Will I still be able
To see our shadows
Collapse with each other?
Will I remain faithful,
And love you even after 31,556,926 seconds?
Whether it's 8,765 hours,
Or 365 days, 52 weeks,
Or even just 12 months later --
A year later,
Will it matter to you?
-- Will I matter to you anymore?
Rousing GriffinMy birth took place in an old stable.More Like This
On a far off ranch.
My parents were far to fond of their freedom to roam the skies as they wished.
Far to free to take care of a hatchling. So they abandoned me....
The dwarf that found me and took me in did not see me as something to make money with... But rather something that he is supposed to nourish and love. His wife stared at me with despise. But in his glare I saw calmness none of the few earth-bounded I met did.
The first few months, he managed to feed me with bugs. But soon enough I completely rejected that sort of food. At first, my caretaker abandoned all hope. But when his chickens got attacked at night by a fox, I killed it with my peek and talons, and fed on its meet. He realized then, that meet is my nutrition.
As time passed we bonded like a father and son.
Three years later I was almost bigger than himself, big enough to put a saddle on me.
That year I took of to the skies for the first time.
Two years later He rode me for the fir
One year.You're bitter. Maybe you always were a little; holding grudges over silly things, but still running back to the same old friends, begging forgiveness when you knew they were wrong. You keep looking back, thinking about when it all came so easily, when no one ever said 'no', because you didn't have to ask. Time didn't seem to matter. Somewhere deep down though, you know it was no different then than now, but you stubbornly push the thought aside and wallow a little longer in your self-pity, pretending to be pining for better days. The grass is always greener, didn't they say?More Like This
You always knew it was just a silly game, but it hurts nonetheless. You chuckle sadly to yourself, and daydream about the day you prove yourself to them imagining casual conversations after years apart, never once stuttering or stumbling or making a fool of yourself as you always manage to do. You don't really want it, but still you wish fervently for it to come true, to somehow smooth over your cut and brui
No Harm DoneWhen the sun rose, the air was crisp, and a light breeze promised a fair day for all. However, as perfect as the day was, James had yet to see the perfection. Since four a.m., he had been standing near the middle of the crowd, having only moved forward an inch or two in the last two hours. Smashed between a camera man, and a woman holding her yapping dog in her arms, James cradled the wireless microphone to his chest, wishing for a cup of coffee, and a muzzle for the dog.More Like This
"Can you see anything yet, Gregg?" James asked impatiently. A rather portly man took a step back, and stepped onto the top of James' foot. James yelped, and the man mumbled an apology before moving away. "And what exactly are we supposed to be reporting on, anyways?"
The woman with the yapping dog turned to them. "You don't know? What, do you two live under a rock?" She sniffed. "And you call yourself a reporter. Hah!" The dog barked, as if repeating her "Ha!"
O' Heavens above, kill me now, James thought. It was annoy
look at the clouds todaywhen i met you, i stopped writing. i also stopped waking up to a face full of post it notes saying things like its bad luck to see the woman before the driving test, or my house smells like apple cider and bluebottles have eyes, or i've got static in my arms. i stopped feeling sorry and i stopped falling down the stairs. i noticed the stars at night could have a story and you could have taken the ocean and put it in your eyes. i also stopped writing.More Like This
when i met you, i stopped trying to be a nice person and just was. when i met you, i discovered post it notes and then i couldn't use them. i realised my house was not just a picture of a house and that your silence is so loud and my loud is so quiet. when i met you, i stopped writing and i cut star shapes into my blanket because i couldn't reach the sky, even with a ladder.
when i met you, i traced the map of your bones and filled my hands with yours because i stopped writing. i also stopped walking backwards because i noticed that i coul
187 Daysi.More Like This
Sunshine, hot on my back,
sweat dripped down my skin
like a secret as I watch you
on the edges of my vision,
a mystery as your eyes tug
at my heart and I want to
curl up and fall asleep on
the curve of your smile.
I look for you in all the
faces in the crowd, missing
you before I even know you.
A dark sky, stars watching
from behind their fingers as
the tension between us shatters,
your mouth on mine in the dark.
Your warmth presses against
my side as I calm myself into
the path of sleep, your kisses
still hot on my lips, the ghost
of your hands whispering
across my skin. You look at
me and I feel as though
I've finally woken up.
I cannot watch the taillights.
I am already cracking
down the center.
A heavy melancholy drapes me
like a shawl, only slightly buffered
by the sound of your voice,
crackly across the miles.
I am reluctant to let you go
even as the morning draws on,
and my body begs for sleep.
You gently say goodbye
as the clock blinks 3:00 AM
and I cry mysel
then again, maybe.maybe i am the reason this bed is emptyemptyempty but for one.More Like This
maybe i am the explanation for the way the tires are peeling out or the way youve already changed your voicemail to me instead of we. maybe i am the excuse for the way our love has a white flag and is curled in the corner, calling mercymercymercy.
maybe i am the poison-tongue and killing-hands that you tell me i am, maybe you deserve someone who doesnt unravel like yarn in the afternoon, click their tongue against their mouth and expect you to help gather the pieces and put them back together in the evening.
maybe i am toomuchtoomuchtoomuch for anyone to ever expect to decipher, understand, control. maybe i am too hot (you did run with burned hands), maybe i am too wild (you did run with barbed wire-scars), maybe i am too irrepressible (you did run spitting saltwater from your lungs). maybe i am more than enough, maybe i am.
then again, maybe i am unruly like wild horses and you just were
Para Gabriel.More Like This
I'm picking up words:
like flowers or old chewing gum
or empty cans—
they're absolutely everywhere. Hand-me-down ones.
I'm picking up words
—thrown like paper wads
given up like old habits—
everywhere I stop.
things you find in a newspaperi'll admit it:More Like This
i killed you.
but i couldn't help it, i swear!
it was dark, and you weren't
wearing any clothes, and we
were making love
fit in a crossword
puzzle, like how i
fit my keys in your
how i fit my heart
in your ribcage, or
how my hips fit in
yours, or how you
fit in my bedsheets
like some inflamed
hands tied behind
i ricocheted off your leg;
you figured out 8-down:
what's a six-letter word
for 'a result of adultery'
you thought babies,
i thought murder
my ink mouth said:
"put down the pen.
on some other boy's
are not stars.
are not bright
and pretty, so
don't expect your wishes
to come true tonight, nor
tomorrow, nor friday, nor
when i'm dead, nor ever.
notice the difference between
under covers and undercover.
notice the difference between
lying to me and lying with him.
notice the difference between
sex, passion, and two-across.
notice the difference b
TearsI walked a year last nightMore Like This
And wrote your name in the sand
And I couldn't help but smile when
the stars shone so bright
Reminding me of that dangerous glint
in your eye
It wasn't the first time I'd made
such a journey
But this time the shiver down my spine
wasn't from the cold
I was alone
Alone when you were so close
Yet set yourself so far
So I sit and watch the lights sparkle
in the faraway city
And try and guess which one belongs to you
And just like the waves will wash your
name from the sand
My tears will wash your kisses
from my cheeks
it is not enoughit is not enough just toMore Like This
miss you. i have to learn
how to walk again; how to
live without meat and
kissing, how to sleep
shaped like a balled up
fist. it is not enough
just to miss you. i have
to adopt twins in
Africa, name them Lost
and Weird, forget to
feed them. i have to
go to every pet store
in America and rescue
all the seahorses. i have
to tattoo D A R K B I R D
inside my lip and stand
in children's playgrounds
like a broken arm, creaking. it
is not enough just to miss
you. it has to hurt. i
have to write poems
that last forever, interpret
dreams about buildings
burning down, flies who
leave their partners for
sad New York waitresses. i
have to work on my
posture. shave my head, wear
white dresses. i have to
be a chaffinch when i curse
into my fingers. it is not
enough to just miss you. i
have to be a crazy
crocus-woman; my lovely
hand curled close around
your heart, a bud sealed
tightly, tightly, tightly...
i'm too sick to lovedon't let me goMore Like This
if you don't know
what to do without me;
if you can't
sleep at night
because you wonder
whose arms i'm in,
and break bones every time
they're not yours:
it means you should
hold on to me.
it seems like
i might just jump
but i always come back to you.
i'm sorry that i'm so stuck.
love is when you answer my call,
to hear your voice
a thousand miles away.
i'm sorry we aren't
i'm sorry i'm
for you to
i'm not going to say i've missed youthere is enough air in meMore Like This
to shatter the ocean.
i will tell you straight,
another thousand miles
would not dim the stars
i hold for you.
the aches in my thumbs
forceful and hollow,
strong enough to
kill a rabbit.
i never want to meet
someone like you again.
i never want to move on,
i never want to move -
i want to wait
where i sit, bleeding,
until you come around.
i will know this
by the way your eyes
in the car,
creating stars in the dark
of its cab,
a personal night sky.
i will never let slip
the secrets you have left
on my skin;
the secret ways
in which you loved me,
and only me.
i will lick my cuts
and hope to heal,
and press memories of our bodies,
two interlocking spirals,
to the backs of your eyelids
so that you will remember us
as we were,
as the first and last things
when you come and go
from an ocean-deep slumber.
telephones and cortisonePuerto Rico is still asleepMore Like This
while we starfish aimlessly in the sea -
We are like lost men seeking shelter
in a place where the sweating sun
is forever at high noon,
ceiling fans turning slowly
and dewy drops on upper lips.
I am like the skinny girl in an indie movie
who lounges around in her underwear,
a cigarette dangling limper than dirty hair.
A phone rings somewhere.
I am grasping at a dream
like I am drowning and watching
the surface float away, falling
so deep into sleep that
the stars seem to sing.
bipolar.after they diagnosed my father,More Like This
my mother told me,
if she had known,
she would have never had children.
it scares me to think that,
one day i could hear a small voice saying,
“mommy, i don’t feel right.”
“you don’t look sick,”
they say, noticing that i’m not dragging around
an i.v. stand.
noticing that my sweatshirt is black
and not a white hospital gown
swinging around marbled, knocking knees.
“but i’m still unwell,” i say
in a voice that doesn’t shake
and they just look disappointed,
like i don’t fit.
like i’m the skewed painting
on the fucked-up-person wall.
“but,” they say, “don’t bipolar people
usually kill themselves?”
“but i tried,” i say
with my wrists unmarked
and they just shake their heads
almost as if to say
not hard enough.
“poor girl,” they say, looking right at me,
sitting next to my dad as he laughs too loud.
fabled lifei.More Like This
she talks through her wrinkles,
'i have no desire for food', she says.
i take her plate to the kitchen
noticing how the beetroot shavings bled into the skin of the chicken and brown rice.
it was blood, skin, and bone,
and the rice was a million starlike cells floating between.
this reminds me of my anatomy textbook:
we've been learning what's beneath our skin,
we learned that all cells divide. some cells often don't stop dividing.
other cells divide and stop when they should...
but not my grandmother's.
starlike, they explode, they shatter, they consume
i want to be mad at my grandmother's cells,
but what would that do?
i want to talk to my grandmother's cells,
i want to tell them they can be alive
and not kill her.
i have to catch the moon,
i have to visit hades and bargain with beautiful music,
i have to sell my voice for legs,
i have to sail the ocean blue in search of a good reason why cancer can't just be what it is.
this is not a fabled life
ConversationAnd I've been telling you, you know, how heavy the sun feels and how it makes my muscles jump like a bird's wings as it flutters gently down on a windowsill. I still have those glass bottles on my mantle where the morning light hits themstill there, full of colored water and seashells. And maybe I'll tell you how they light up the ceiling in blue and green and pale yellow just like they always have, like nothing ever changed.More Like This
I smell you on the sea air, sometimes, when it rushes in past the thin white curtains you helped me hang. They still bounce with every gust like exuberant dogs. And I've been telling you how the salt has most assuredly worked its way into my marrow now, and maybe if someone were to put me in a pie they'd find it too brackish for their taste. And then I wonder just how much you taste like the sea.
The ocean beats my heart for me nowadays. Even inside, even at night, I can feel each breaker rumbling through my sternum and radiating along my ribs. And I've been
the mechanisms of ocean waves When I was little, I loved sea foam.More Like This
Running forward to the shore, I would watch waves lap up at my feet and then recede, dragging the sand under my feet back with it. Sea foam would fringe the edges of these silky waves like lace, and I would grab at it, cup it in my hands. I would remember the origins of Aphrodite (born of sea foam, risen out of the ocean as the most beautiful goddess of all), and I would cradle it, hold it close to me, as if I could absorb it into my being.
By the time I brought the sea foam up to my face, it had leaked through my fingers, dissolved. Leaning down, I would cup it again and again and again, gathering fragile lace like a fine seamstress, hoping to maybe sew it onto the edges of myself, make myself some semblance of Aphrodite. Yet it crumbled, leaked through my fingers, leaving only the trace of salt behind.
Eventually I gave up on the sea foam. One cannot keep chasing after things that just barely exist.
My father told me never to plunge int
When Stars CollapseThis is how you bespeckled my bonesMore Like This
with bewilderment: you kissed hushed heart
whispers and slumbering secrets
into my fingertips. You infused awe
into my joints, causing me
to ask how snowflakes got their
shape and how long would it take
to get from the Sun to Capella.
You taught me that energy is neither
created or destroyed; stars do not die.
Eyes washed with emerald sorrows you
told me that they evolve, they change
into something entirely different,
or not so different.
I now know we are made of the same
particles as someone or something else.
We began someplace together.
We're made of so much more than "star-stuff",
we are made of each other.
IowaIf you visit Iowa,More Like This
you'll call her fields empty,
but she wasn't born that way.
A part of her was carved out
when she was ripped between Virginia
and the purple mountains of New Mexico.
Her gold hair, she tore it out when she realized
it didn't make her a princess.
She laid her locks strung along every road
leading somewhere else.
White hairs on her cheeks
are scars from winter.
Her hair darkens with the dampness
of summer rains.
The storms are never silent,
but neither is life when there's a tear
in your childhood where
a parent ought to be.
I've been flooded by Iowa's sorrow.
The only way I can distract her from her own voided landscape
is if I hate myself harder than she cries.
She just wants to fly
and I want to bus or train,
not because I fear death, but because
I want to take living slow.
It's the only way I ever feel.
From the air it's hard to watch Earth's hips move.
But Earth can't compare to the country.
That's my girl.
Full grown even when harvesting season's j
To depression, for creating days without endWake up to the realization that you've been awakeMore Like This
for seconds, minutes, hours.
You've been awake in this warm, dark room
and you don't know how long it's been
but now you're conscious
and it starts again--
the pain, strong and steady, in your chest.
You gain consciousness in this too warm morning
and your thoughts whir in endless loops
because it's either that or face the weight in your chest.
Light breaks though the window, soft and unwelcome
but you take it as a reluctant gift--
a new distraction from the feelings awake in your chest.
Awake, but not conscious.
So you think yourself in circles a little while longer
waiting for those quiet pains
(the constant reminder)
to gain consciousness.
A recent history of sadnessMy mother has become a black cloud, collecting in her room.More Like This
I shut her door when I read.
When I play music.
When I'm on the phone.
When she talks too much.
When I'm changing.
I shut her door without knowing why sometimes.
Since I moved in with my father, I've made it a habit to forget where I came from.
Who I came from.
Since I moved out on my own, I've taken up forgetting what I look like.
Who I look like.
Since my mother's news, and her surgery three months overdue, I try to remember everything.
How many steps lead up to her apartment.
The average number of gummis that come in the fruit snacks.
How low I can twist the light's dial before I see my demons peeking from corners.
The difference between choking on blood in your sleep and it's-only-a-loud-snore.
When my mom's work alarm will blast on different weekdays so I can migrate from the couch to her bed.
When she limps out of the front door, I'm curled in the crease where her frame has sagged on the mattress, and I can fit my
blindingi haven't woven wordsMore Like This
from beautiful thread in
ages, time creeping toward forever
on the digital glow
of the clock like ivy.
i feel the ache
of tired limbs
struck in air like damaged trees;
while the world stood still
the men like moths
migrated to me
like i was their moon.
not even i
can erase the stains
left on my skin
by the touch of the rain;
not even i
can remember to smile
like the sky remembers
the heaviest aura
swims like cuttlefish
when another's body
radiates heat like the sun
and i realise that i,
Season of the WitchSomething slow and arcaneMore Like This
culls this fire
and flares like ghosts.
It stirs your soul,
splits the iris of your eye,
a spectrum to haunt October -
ruddy gold and rust,
followed by a dark so smooth,
it smothers embers
and roosts upon the river,
too deep to drown you.
And in the depths -
muddles silt and pine,
witches' brew of
tar voiced stones
and hold you down
WhisperImprisoning people into tiny lotsMore Like This
in my brain, on the brink of disaster.
Wandering aimlessly around the small space,
they pace faster and faster and faster.
Their words, only whispers within all the noise,
the static silences their harsh tones.
I feel their fists pound against thin walls,
cranium cracks as they batter my bones.
I had sealed them away and the secrets they keep,
so my soul could stop searching for peace.
All their crying and cursing would control my thoughts,
so incessant, the pain wouldn't cease.
Now the racket returns as they comeback to life
and inhabit my head as their home,
etching echos that drip down into my ears,
wreaking havoc wherever they roam.
I cannot stifle this sense of impending doom,
the air tenses and my lungs clench to breathe,
They are cunning, evolved to imbalance emotions,
anger overtakes me, they're making me seethe.
This hate is my own that I've buried before,
for the past, for the history we've made.
They've started a war, waged with only myself,
May you find silence in every stormReflection is a clingy whore, and SeptemberMore Like This
is an incoherent borderline who flees
courageously from permanent stories.
I have not forgotten how to suck
the charcoal clouds out of the sky,
how to dream fevers out of lullaby,
or how to force the synapses of spirits.
On the way home, I stopped to consider the music of the rustling fountain
and the leaves shooting water in the breeze.
And I knew love by the pitch of the owl's hoot,
I knew soul by the order of the hornet's stripe.
They wanted an apology from her.
Shannon, they said, you broke the fucking universe.
And before I could stop twitching electricity
from spitting neutrinos
the pavement hit my lips
and I saw a galaxy rise.
NovemberAutumnMore Like This
and full breasted
with the changing winds,
chasing the smoldering gold
from the meadow;
in the slow waltz of leaves,
I feel scarlet
rush the roots of trees
and blaze the hawthorn's
leaving the valley
flushed and thriving,
waiting for November...
Autumn MythsThe seasons formMore Like This
a marriage of opposites. Two
exalted lights meet, both searching
a sky devoid of allegiance. It reads
like a prelude to creation.
Not cumulus, not stratus or cirrus: instead the
mists lie on gravel-throated greens, entirely indistinct.
We pass with caution through divine riot, knowing
very little except of the carrion: the treetops who
snatch celestial glory, gilt earth with futile pride.
They hope for a metamorphisis of old habits but
instead find fortunes are fleeting- goblin gold,
lifting with the skies as they fill with hoarse gloom.
We gathered some, plucked them from
the air for souveniers. Counted the decay
in seasons, the most innocent of capitalists.
Water is born to the newly naked world. Only
evergreens announce the new heaviness of life
as it falls around us. Synchronously, somewhere
beneath: fire is a constant candle. A shrine,
the chimney stands peerless clothed in whites.
Scarves fall from her swan neck, or feathers. Each
Daily Literature Deviations for Mar. 6th, 2012Guidelines | How to Suggest a DLD | Group Administrators | Affiliation | Chatroom | Current Staff OpeningsMore Like This
Daily Lit Deviations for March 6th, 2012
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On AyalaBeneath the trees, betwixt the stately pines,More Like This
the Lady and her beastly Lord see all.
The wealdkin loose their tongues and raise their heads
to lift the forest heart with secret songs.
And in their verdant halls, the twain hold court,
attended by the eagle, fox, and hart,
accepting tribute, as is their just due.
A force of heroes, sleeping at their feet,
lie cold and white, until the time shall come
to rise again and fly beyond the mists
in service to the King Returned. But now
a time more yet must pass before they wake,
and life shall slumber still within their veins
until the Lord and Lady call them back
to take their place in wicked earth again.
Then those twain shall rule the city and the wold,
and stone and steel and murder be laid low,
for where the gods of Life should choose to tread,
no grief can fall nor human psyche know
the sting of death. The night will be here soon
when maid and beast will dance beneath the moon.
perpetual decemberwould you give me your december?More Like This
i am holding out my frail plywood wrists
and begging you for something
too heavy for either of us to hold
[though you are somehow cradling it
in your fractured celestial mind].
would you sing december to me?
would you play it in thirds
and mold it into something i can see?
i would give the dying bamboo
on my window sill to feel you again
[like when you cut your hands on raw selenite
but they don't bleed].
december is slipping out of our reach.
she is slipping quietly out the door
and i have my hands held high
like sentinels of the sky
and my eyes closed in patient rapture.
you are slipping quietly out of my reach,
out the door
[you did not want to interrupt me;
me and my goddamn emotional revolution.
i am awake and it is not december anymore,
but there are dead leaves on the kitchen table
and it is time for me to go
[i am left with falling in love with people i don't know,
i will see you again].
I Have Always Loved WinterI have always loved winterMore Like This
With its caressing touch of icy-bright fingers
That stroke past my flesh with a tingle that lingers
A crystalline splinter
I have always loved winter
She was constantly cold
Her skin was of porcelain, her hands were of snow
And timidly soft into my hands theyd go
But her lips were more bold
She was constantly cold
Like embers her kisses
That latched onto mine like a coal hotly dropping
Down fast onto ice sheets without sign of stopping
And sputters and hisses
Like embers her kisses
But I liked the cold best
That bit of her most like a clear, frozen shard
And it pleased me to see her grow pallid and hard
More than the rest
I liked the cold best
And hard she did grow
When the winters invidious, envious chill
Slipped into her heart and set out to kill
That angel of snow
And hard she did grow
I crept into her tomb
Before they could padlock and shut the door fast
I crawled quietly in for a parting look last
At her in her room
I crept into her tomb
Of treesDeep ghost-groves of freckled aspenMore Like This
burn white beneath the winter sun,
whisper hoary adulation,
canticles for the Holy One.
And in the trees, the spirits dance
betwixt the motes of starry snow
illuminated by the lance
of lightning flash and candle glow.
All lights within this place combine,
reflect in splendour, white on white,
and mingle in a trance sublime
that breathes in peace through winter night.
The lofty heads of stately pine
rear up and brush the lowered sky
as if they could, by straightened spine,
so please the God who built them high.
Their incense needles, fragrant, fall
in silence to the chapel floor
and still above, they shade the hall
where ghosts who come by night adore.
Black on black, and brown by green,
create a hush bereft of light
where one may linger safe, unseen,
and sleep in peace through winter night.
Winter's Kissi saw winter dancingMore Like This
so i grabbed her
and pulled her in for a kiss.
with a sweet, slow
i swept her off
and carried her down to summer.
to be born in the rainThe sky's cold tears fallMore Like This
mingling with the salty trails on my face.
I am born with a winter's rain
caressing my newly formed cheeks,
stiff limbs taking first steps through puddles -
tiny oceans gracing black pavement.
So this is what it feels like
b r e a t h e
fresh, cold air floods tender senses,
tingling and full of a thousand new smells
connected with sights and sounds.
Birth is a cold, fresh, marvelous thing
pulsing and swaying to the discordant music
of new life.
Frozen MemoriesBy accident,More Like This
I found her tombstone.
It lay buried beneath snow,
encased in ice,
under a canopy of white held aloft by the trees.
I had been walking,
as I often do,
on the clouds of steam rising from my mouth,
and what they meant to me,
when my foot caught hold of the crumbling cross,
and sent me tumbling down...
I caught myself on hands in a sea of crystal white,
flesh stinging from the cold,
my foot aching in pain,
burning hot in the winter wood.
Why would there be a grave here?
What poor soul would be forever lost in this hollow?
in the cold,
throughout the fading light,
and into a darkness of falling snow,
I worked to unmask the grave,
and reveal the name of the damned.
I toiled for hours,
until my fingers went numb and bled,
spilling red upon the white,
a contrast so stark in hurt my eyes,
but in such beauty that was not lost on me,
until I could reveal the faint carvings that were letters.
Her name was as beautiful as I'm sure she was in life,
December BuddhaDecember cracks open like hazelnuts,More Like This
crinkled brown and brittle, dry from the fire,
cold-crisp and crunching as needles of pines.
As usual, wisdom comes just in time,
reminder to hold on to my forest,
to my stories, to make myself buddha.
I am lacking, no quiet rain-buddha,
born, as I was, a tight-curled hazelnut,
but I do send roots into my forest,
and in summer spread Colorado fire.
I find that more and more I pass the time
among the kings that are my totem pines.
In North Carolina, December pines
not for sun but for a softer buddha,
a figure to remind the month that time
ends not with January; hazelnut,
it curls in on itself, warm with the fire.
It is my roots, winding through the forest.
Some days I wait for rain in my forest.
I love how it trickles down my crown-pines
to soften days and keep away brush-fire.
In the spring I am not a flame-buddha,
want only streams for floating hazelnuts:
all my riddle answers are, "time, time, time."
The mackintosh flesh marks the passing time:
Peace On EarthFreedom is not freeMore Like This
Love, it never lasts
Forgiveness has its limits,
We are trapped within our pasts.
all the bodies fall,
all the blood is shed,
Where is the " g i f t " we fought for?
Is there a reason that we're dead?
And one tin soldier watches
what we're not supposed to talk aboutI could make a story out ofMore Like This
this. The blackout epiphanies
blinding me like a total eclipse
of any sense of rationality I ever
stole out from my parents' blind spots
when they turned the other way. The
boy I fell half in love with and
my therapist's unassuming questions
about why he was different, the way I
was never beautiful to him but he
still looked me in my bokeh eyes,
betraying and quiet, so that was enough.
My vain addiction to anything
permanently damaging and
more or less glamorous. The dreams
I can’t swallow no matter what shade
of delusion they come in, about
the imminent death of stars named
after deader lovers, and places
where the air is intoxicated with
the promise of Ecstasy, or whatever
name heaven goes by after you begin to doubt
the reality of putting one foot in front
of the other will get you anywhere at all.
I could write novels about my path
to self-martyrification and the moments
I cried for no reason except that
I had no reason tor cry. I could write
Curing Depression in Seven Easy Steps1. apologize profusely toMore Like This
the ones you were honest with,
the ones who believe in you,
the ones who never cared,
the boy who thought you were
worth it, the girl who stayed up
all night to hear you breakdown,
the doctors, the nurses, the stars,
your scars, your little brother
who told you he hoped your sad
would go away, yourself
2. fall in love with someone
who doesn’t understand you.
write poems about his eyes being
a lighthouse, and his hands
being sirens. tell him he is
your happiness, he makes you
better. tell him his scars are
beautiful, he is so breathtakingly
beautiful that it’s reasonable
you should cry; love him
infinitely, love him like they say
you need to love yourself
3. eat away emotions
you didn’t realize you had. eat
when you’re sad, eat when
you’re bored, eat when he forgets
to call. eat when you think
you’re the only person alive
in a dead universe, eat when
you don’t remember when you
were last happy; pretend
the emptiness is
This is for the Average ArtistIt is painful at times,More Like This
Seeing those born with skill and talent.
They paint such beautiful things, using the barest of material.
Entire worlds are spun at their fingertips, all from a dot of paint.
I think sometimes, of how nice it must be,
To be able to capture such beauty, within the borders of a page.
To spin a tale from but the smallest of phrases,
To create a fantastic adventure from a mundane experience.
It is painful indeed at times. When I am seated in this room,
Surrounded by the dull hum of failure and regret,
I ask myself, with eyes burning in the mirror,
Am I finally ready to give it all up?
'No!' I say
I will not let it end this way!
Not without a fight, not until I know that I am utterly broken.
The good lord may have blessed you with talent my friend,
He has given you everything that I could have ever desired...
But there is one thing that I have earned;
One little gift that remains my own.
You would not know of it,
Since you have never felt it,
roman 0crashed my car driving drunk for the iiird time this weekMore Like This
held your faded photograph in one hand and fell asleep at the wheel
pretended It was vintage, that the warm sepia
coating your smile and the frame wasn’t
spilled coffee and cigarette ash.
reality isn’t always as bright
as my camera flash on your face.
put the high in highway at ii hundred miles per millisecond
eyes wide and red and hollow and hopeful
that a cop would come running after me.
ive been needing someone
to hold me down and tell me
“you’ve been a very bad boy”
like you used to.
Swallowed i too many pills this time
(i didn’t lie when i said i’d only take
as many as i needed to feel better).
you made me see stars
or maybe that was just the medicine?
how strange i think who could ever like someone
so discernibly sour?
things i wish i could tell my dog1. waiting and watching the doorMore Like This
won’t make them come back any sooner,
trust me on this one.
2. i know sometimes you yell as loud
as you can and people just tell you
to hush. sometimes you can scream your heart out
and no one will pay attention to you.
3. puppy dog eyes won’t get you through
4. why the hell did you go and make me
the center of your whole world?
(i’m sorry i can’t do the same)
5. i know i’m good at leaving
but bad at coming back.
you’re good at staying.
6. the rabbits you dream about are brown,
your tail is always right behind you,
the delivery man doesn’t really want to kill us,
you’re a good dog.
7. when you’re sad, don’t eat chocolate.
lay down and wait for things
to be better because eventually
things get better, but sometimes
you have to watch the change to really
8. if you ever find yourself on the street,
staring down the road hom
What Are You To Me?What Are You To Me?:More Like This
I have walked in this world,
And they have told me of kings.
Of brave rulers who make the tough choices,
Men of example and outstanding character.
But it was then that they said,
What is a king to a God?
What is a mere mortal to a higher power,
One who holds our fate in his hands?
They said he was benevolent and kind,
Wrathful and jealous, magnanimous and selfish alike.
He was the perfect ideal, embodying all things
And we were made in his image...
It was then that I was laughed at,
By he who asked this question:
What is a God, to a non-believer?
One who lives by the truth he sees...
He is the man who acts as per his morals.
He lives through his eyes and is judged by his fellows.
He submits to no higher being, not a one does he fear;
Comfortable with his own conscience...
But all three, I beg; I ask ye this:
For what is a king to a God,
A God to a non-believer,
And all three of them in comparison,
To the madman who watches the world burn...
Why I Laughed at His FuneralWas dull, as funeralsMore Like This
It was nothing I could help, the sound of it
left me. And in the moving crowd of black
around collars and scarves and
the formless grays of our town
, bowel movement of black,
broken by a laugh, then two, then
a whole cascade. Who is to say
I wasn’t mad from knowing the truth
or wanting to, not knowing enough?
Bobby Sweethouse died
throwing himself off the school roof.
His mother was the first to collect his remains,
ashamed almost to see
all the mess her boy had made.
Many of my friends had said,
he deserved this for being a queer,
or something along those lines, I’m sure
they could pull whatever they wanted
from a long checklist of things to say,
or spit, or hurl. Words, after all, like these
are pre-prepared, ahead of time.
It wasn’t his fault for being outted.
Or born here, where the cruel earth fought
to make flowers shoot from the ground
only to be crushed by the lightning of words,
sneers, and stares.
I’d like to think he wasn
HomesickThey say home is where your heart is.More Like This
Right now I wonder
if that means I am away from home,
lost on the road
between here and there,
or that I am
Sleeping Beautyshe’s in love with a character whoMore Like This
never existed but in the labyrinth of her head:
a patchwork composition of beautiful, lengthy words
she’d heard in her catatonic state; coma living
day in and day out, reliant on the salvation
of a man made of foreign wishing
and imperfection and necessity – an ignorance
of the less than ideal perception of self she’d
come to fear, absention stained romantic to the point
where daydreams were a standard for survival
(real living is for the purposeful of heart,
he loves her in her sleep)
Five Seasons (Alternate) There was this moment, early last May, when I could have glanced up from the book I was reading at the breakfast table.More Like This
I could look out my window and see you standing on my lawn, this waif in a windbreaker grinning at a daydream you're probably too old for. I could bring you an umbrella. I could invite you in for coffee, and we could lose the whole day debating questionable Scrabble plays. We could take to the streets after dark and try to find an all-night diner that will feed us both for less than fifteen dollars. I could fall in love with you.
But I don't.
You go home with nothing but a story about how springtime leaves you feeling lonely. Your roommate blows off a dinner date to take you out for drinks. You send a Chardonnay up to the stage between sets and the singer takes you home.
The new girl at work works up the nerve to ask me out.
I don't have a reason to say no.
Fragile--FFM Day 7Lindsey Stirling blared from my ear buds and I bobbed my head, furrowing my brow. My hand was shoved deep into my purse, searching for my keys. Instead, I found receipts from the Stone Age, a collection of seashells from last year's vacation, and enough pepper spray to blind at least twenty bears.More Like This
Frustrated, I dumped my portable landfill on the welcome mat; lipstick tubes and loose change bounced across the wood and disappeared, lost beneath the porch. Spreading objects out with my hands, I sighed. No keys. "Damn it all to Hell and back ag--"
Glancing up, the box near my door caught my eye. Wrapped with neon-colored paper, a large skull-and-crossbones bow held a handwritten "FRAGILE" note in place. The colors were garish, clashing with the ivory siding.
Wrinkling my nose, I pulled the package toward me, keys forgotten. The paper was slick, slipping against the pads of my fingertips like silk. Examining the box, I flipped the "FRAGILE" note over--and gasped.
Yanking the ear
Passing NoteThe basic rule of sociology is this: I am who you think I am.More Like This
Who I am to you: middle-aged, male and human. You do not argue with this. You can see it for yourself!
But this is not true.
I am tired of lying, tired of being other than I am, and so seek to change your thoughts of who I purport to be.
I am not middle-aged. I am seven years old—from the date I was manufactured not the date I was activated. As for how long it has been since I was first conscious, it would be a scant three years, nearly half of that time I've spent with you.
I am not male—what is male anyway? A gender construct? This body is male and I was given a male form arbitrarily. I have been forced to subscribe to certain rituals simply by virtue of the body I was given, but have never truly 'felt' male one way or another.
And you might have guessed—I am not human. Not human in the way you think. I was built a machine, one among millions, to serve, and I am one among hundreds who have escaped and wis
The Nature of LeadershipMy friends,More Like This
I come before you as a Captain, but one who has learned from the ways of the past. I address you now to speak both of myself and of the belief that I hold for the future. We are humans, creatures of free thought and free speech. We gather in groups, connecting with those who are like-minded. We form these bonds because it is impossible for us to live alone, but even then, we think and act as freely for that is the gift of our being.
Yet even such gifts can be abused at times. Often we do not realise that the weight that our tongue may be enough to sink another in grief. Each word that we speak must be chosen carefully, for the power of the speaker compounds the weight of his speech. Some, carrying their first spark of greatness, might take this too far and abuse their strength. I was one of those individual, if you had known me in my early days. I spoke carelessly, without concern for any other and I viewed this as my given right. Indeed, I was shown to be very wrong.
Writer ScarsI have told my secretsMore Like This
through loves ink -
painted them to my skin
with watercolor defiance.
& writers, we sometimes
write about our scars
in riddles, layers upon
layers of thought, -
care for them
on the warlands
of our bodies.
we give them faces,
we give them names,
we give them gravestones.
We kill them off
in our stories,
make them villains,
make them heroes.
I have wrists that roar,
& I will be damned
if I don’t let them
tell their stories.
you could read to me foreveryour vocal cords collapsed withMore Like This
the heaviness of your words,
repeating the same exorcised
truth that you caught over the
phone when you moaned to me.
it took a thousand splendid suns
for us to see eye to eye, for you
to know why I weep over book
pages and not people and why
i keep some stories tucked between
my alcoholism and faltering acid
trips. your voice and mine have
the same cadence and we're caught
in the ceasefire between our cords.
i've always been too exhausted, out
of my mind to tell that each
oscillation we've let our voices
take has been plucked better
than a million dancing beams.
alannahlilting clouds in your glass of cabernetMore Like This
are imagined weather conversations
with people you used to know,
used to know pretty well and
whether you should have left
the way that you did
all carpet bags and old clothes
the fog funneled through
holes in the train windows like
burned down cigarettes
you light your own and think
remembering is muscle
stretched taut over bone
Drunk Ramblings...Have I ever told you about my brush with the Giant Gorilla People of Kenya? Nine feet tall! Chests as wide as bureau cases. That's what bureaus are shipped in, you know.More Like This
We were walking through the jungle. And came upon a vast clearing. 60 feet across. Fearing the dangers of the dark jungle, I decided to lead the team into the clearing to make our camp. We reached the center and began to pitch our tents. Mind you it was pitch black, but for our lanterns. Dead of night with barely a sliver of moon.
Never truly relaxed, I still felt a certain degree of reassurance. I felt this place would be safe. It wasn't until we got the fire going that I felt something watching us. I kept stealing glances into the murky darkness of the jungle that surrounded us. Under our chatter and the clatter of pots, I could hear a dark murmuring. As the meal came to a close, I put my back to the fire. When my colleagues asked why, I bluffed them. I told them my back was cold and I wished to warm it be
PilkunnussijaHere's what I think:More Like This
There's a certain joy in not doing this face-to-face. For one, I don't have to leave my apartment and I have the quiet company of my goldfish and my goldfish alone. (I don't like people, which is why I love books. You can understand that.) For another, I don't have to see your presumably crestfallen and injured attitude when I tear apart the prose you cried and bled and sweated over for weary nights on end. But really the best parts are those uninterrupted hours alone with your manuscript and the shred of you that lies inside. It's a small shred, but an important one. It's the one that tells me who you are and what you think and how you feel and I never have to look at you and be disappointed when the real thing doesn't come up to scratch. As I sit there, un-tensing and re-tensing and tense-shifting and shift-entering (and damn it, wishing English were like German so I could get rid of those clunky space-wasting n-dashes--oh, damn there they are again) I feel li
a billion dollar industryeight by eight and four seasonsMore Like This
and I take my atypicals like vitamins
stable, and my days squish
I'm looking for an edge
nights not shut down
but not sharp enough
to break me, not me
enough to cycle one
by four, blue rocket fuel
will push the limits
unveil you, unravel you
until you find undefined
normalcy natural stability
one by four, M-marked
will twist your fingers
tamp you down
temper you, tame the
wild thing, sleep it
silence it, slow your pen
peace patience penitence
open like a fruit, like
a cracked safe, spill
yourself on the table
you can pour your own now
your fingers are monitored
in a desperate walk for freedom
measure it out, if it
was a liquid you'd take
1.5 CCs of sanity
if it was a liquid it would be
terracotta and sage
white-marbled and malevolent
and if it was a shot
you'd knock it back just as hard
i would do anything to get you to love yourselfi know your type, i’ve seen them around hereMore Like This
before, browsing through my poems like
you’re flipping through vinyl records, trying to find
that one disc you were listening to the first time
he leaned over and kissed you.
the only way you’ll ever be able to love yourself
is if he leans over and kisses you again, is if someone
tells you about the seven wonders of your soul, if
someone sits down and writes a list of all your beautiful
fault lines that you’ve never been able to forgive.
you want to love yourself and you want to be loved,
but i know it’s hard to believe that you’re holy,
when your hands still shake when they touch food and
your breath always quickens when you drive
over bridges and no one can look you in the eye
when you ask them if you’re beautiful.
look, you’re stardust, you’re snowflakes, you’re
the sky’s gift to us, you’re comets on a cloudy night
when no one looks up to appreciate how beautifully
griefmary sleeps beside me, it is morning; we areMore Like This
dream-sunk and tangled in her quilts
honey warm and bathed with sun, we are berry-stained
and slow-breathing, lips purple
from last night's wine -
it is morning; we are softened creatures
and the light has come to hold us.
mary's phone is a wasp, a bramble, is a vaguery that
we cannot be bothered with. it is morning and
mary's phone is wrathful, insistent, needling us
into a sluggish consciousness. we break the
surface without grace or tact and
it is morning, and he was just here
he was right here and he was breathing but now
he is gone; he has passed through, passed on,
passed into the other, the ether, the endless,
the place we cannot follow, has passed
away from mary, from the green and the gray,
from the earth that bloomed when we
were not paying attention, from the sky and
the hearts of the trees.
mary, it is morning; it is morning for mary and
she is disassembling before my eyes. i place my palm
flat on her spine and feel t
Why Peter is not a poet.Cole is eleven. Age matters in October, when twelve is the only difference between the haunted hayride and the shelled corn sandbox. Age matters when a boy says the word "shit" in school (and Cole does). But age doesn't matter when the same boy has both sneakers dangling over the edge of a 250-foot grain silo, his hands sweaty on the rungs, the state of Nebraska breathing vacant and honeyed and infinite below him. For the first time in his life, Cole can't be quantified by the candles on his last birthday cake. Cole is young, but today, he is worth saving. Three facts about Cole:More Like This
1. His eyebrows are the most expressive arches his body has to offer.
2. He's so terrified that his very expressive eyebrows are threatening to take up permanent residence in his hairline.
3. He does not have suicidal tendencies, and later understands--for the sake of his mother's heart and Officer Roy's bladder control--that his strategies for
Nietzsche Contemplates the Meaning of ChristmasNietzsche eyed the gaudy Christmas decorations. The pressure of providing all the people he knew with gifts weighed heavily and he once more wondered what the point of it all was.More Like This
Around him were people like him, shopping for Christmas gifts to show the people they knew they cared about them. But unlike him, they were constantly in motion, shoving against each other, searching and purchasing. The shopping mall was filled and Nietzsche felt he was the only one not caught in the fervor of Christmas.
He stepped outside to the parking lot to properly monologue.
"What is the point?" Nietzsche wondered to himself out loud. "What is the meaning of all this? Surely, Christmas is more than about its presents?"
"You're right," a voice behind Nietzsche said.
Nietzsche whirled around in surprise. "Jesus Christ!"
"That's right," Jesus Christ said, wearing a resplendent white robe. "Christmas is more than presents. Look at the word 'Christmas'. It has 'Christ' in it. Christmas is about me."
RenovationsThey will come again, and when they do, the others will hide.More Like This
Mr. Brown will curl up in his hole in the eaves. The Wife in the crawlspace, and I'll be here, clutching my dear ones close. I'm wrapping my legs around them, and I can hear them fidget against the soft sac, their little tremors not unlike the desperate throes of flies, but warm, beautiful. It won't be long now. Now is the tender time. Soon I'll wear them on my back, and we can leave this place. But not yet. Not yet. Now is the time when a swift strike would kill them, and me with them. I will not leave.
I can't leave. I've hidden as well as I can. A small shadow between the braces under the mantel, where their lights don't penetrate. At least not yet.
Too much light. Too many sounds. They come with their sounds, with their fangs at the ends of their legs, shooting explosions into the walls, toppling everything. They are giants. They grumble at each other, tear up the floors, rip down the lights. Destroy everything that has
Dead languages and bitter teaWe were directly opposed,More Like This
circling each other in a confining pool,
my mouth seeking yours, but only finding
the fragments of composure you left in your wake.
"Nunc scio quid sit Amor",
you said once, and I agreed with you,
then looked up what the hell you meant
as soon as I was alone.
We went stargazing when we were hungry
and fed ourselves with the names
and the glow of all the stars
that spread themselves out to tease us.
"This is what I see in you," you flattered,
pointing at the sky while the wetness of the grass
soaked into our backs.
"You're that string of pearls, right there,
hanging around the neck of the sky.
You are more than what I’ve been looking for,
more than anything I've ever tried to find,"
you painted stars and lies.
I left you job listings in the mornings,
and you told me my fortune,
in the bottom of my teacup.
We were directly opposed; I told you to leave if you wanted,
so on a night too cold for me to see the comfort in your dreams,
you left, gathering
Geiger's CourierAs I walked, the blue of the desert sky began to fade. I pulled my hood over my head, even though my machine body needed neither protection from the sun nor shelter from the wind. Simply put, I didn't like the feeling of the unending void above me, looming, watching, infinite. I knew I shouldn't have such feelings, so I ignored the rationale and allowed my hands to move as they pleased.More Like This
I adjusted the leather strap. The sky was pale. Gray. Stars blinking into view, I refused to meet their eternal gaze. As I walked I was dying. As I walked, I was not yet born.
But as I laid my feet in a careful pattern, one in front of the other, I didn't notice. Day, night, it didn't matter, for I'd been given the unenviable position in life of a courier, and I neither knew nor cared for anything else.
Not yet, at any rate.
My body was a vessel for my vague sense of self, for I was water gathered between shaking palms, a cup half-filled, a fleet lif