“I hate you. I trusted you and you betrayed me. Have you any idea how that feels?” he threw the insult at you. Crimson wine ebbed onto the cream carpet as you lost your grip on the bottle. The empty rolled around the floor spreading the mess. Grey eyes caught glassy (e/c) eyes.
“Like you’re a bloody saint. Tell me how many times you lied to me. You don’t bloody know do you? Don’t you even think about telling me that you were trying to protect me.” Your voice was filled with anger and sadness.
You dropped the book you were preparing to throw at his blonde head. His legs gave out from under him and he hit the floor with a thud, just missing the shattered glass. Draco ran his hands
rorschach nerves &
mercury veins -
i am no tragedy boy,
but i have self-decay
down to an art.
this tar tongue only starts
marlboro conversations &
i only start fires.
like the ink scratches
of plath, i am
specter boy: decay,
dispose, & disappoint
because this is the way
that writers wane -
(this hangman head is no
survivor story, & gods
do not burn out
of talking them out. oh,
kids like us are specters,
spectacles: boys counting
rib(cage)s & (de)composing
don't you hate
is a vessel
we're deities or tomb-raiders; no
in-betweens for writers these days
grind them into watercolors -
bay-water boy, paint your brains
on the wallpaper like a sinner's
sermon; you won't wilt the way
that deities do, you solipsist:
you're just a suicide drone.
your venus in blue: he's got
honeybees eating at his mind
& cinder-ash rotting in his teeth;
(oh the kid's just like a cigarette -
the way he's burned himself bone-weary)
"Mmm-hmm?" he nuzzled into her shoulder.
"I have something I want to ask you."
He sat up straight, disconnecting from her physically so that he could look at her, but keeping his fingers tight around her own. "Yeah?"
"We've been together for a long time. Through thick and thin, we've had our struggles, but somehow they only made us stronger."
He squeezed her hand and smiled. "Yeah?"
"You mean more to me than anyone in the world. You're my zing, my soulmate, and I want to spend every day together for as long as we possibly can."
She slid off of the log they were sitting on and into the sand, bending down on one knee, never letting go of his hand. "Jonathan, will you ma
cobwebbed mind & i
feel cinematic; like a
i'll write myself into a
& outline cinder bones
to match - ingenue,
you are an esoteric's
nightscape & i, your
morning's fever burns.
words like a dichotomist; he's more
of an executioner. menthol-misanthropic
& so self-referential, his galaxy pages
are always meant to crucify.
(doesn't he know, the blackthorn boy,
that his pens are a casket?)
But it made you smile
Would it still be a sin?
If I opened the door
But turned you away
Would you still come in?
If I sliced my skin
But it didn't hurt
Would it still be wrong?
If I acted all brave
But couldn't face it
Would I still be strong?
If I tied my noose
Around a tree's open arms
Would it be an embrace?
If I left tonight
And begged you stay
Would you still give chase?
If I committed sin
But hurt nobody
Would I be welcome above?
If I do something you hate
But only for your good
Could it still be true love?
layered bones - fit them
together with grey matter.
poet kids, we were waning,
wasting, rotting out our
teeth. heavy hangmen
hammered nails into our
skulls; we were scrawling
we are hynagogic wasteland words, unraveling
corpses clutching at bruised throats - white gasoline
and when your skin heals, i hope i've permeated your bones
( i will never be rid of you ).
claw words out of bird carcasses,
poets pecking viscera like necropolitans.
they count their ribs to remind you
of a corpse or of a matchstick. dry bones
between fissured wrists & funeral pyres,
these have been dying days &
they're all mortuaries.
am rotting, reinfected -
a skeleton's blooming from
underneath my skin; she's
between my collar bones,
she's inside my jaw, she -
she is vile, the way all necromancers are
(but god, am i envious).
Francis Bonnefois merely smiled softly and shrugged, his crystalline blue eyes not quite looking into the (h/c) haired young woman's own (e/c) ones.
"Because I do not see the need to, mon amour. I don't exactly mind, you see. Let them think what they want. As long as I have you, everything is perfectly fine to me."
(Name) petulantly crossed her arms and glowered, her lips curling into a semblance of a snarl as her eyes wandered to the group of girls that were all huddled together, looking at the handsome blonde man and his companion in a not-so-inconspicuous manner. They were whispering non-too quietly, and their snide voices drifted over to the two on a light breeze.
"He's such a player…
write your way out of this
body or out of this mind;
you can pray like it's high-fashion,
insist you're only burning yourself out
(but tell me - do you feel like a god yet?)
if only for murky mirrors &
silver cicadas caught
in your ribcage, you've
got a knack for decaying
nobody falls in love with saturn,
but everyone, her rings.
this disjointed skull is a smirking
mirror bending back reflections.
this disjointed skull is a sleep-smoker.
you were a utopian seven lives ago,
but nobody lives in this body anymore.
i. The first gift he gave her was a pendant that symbolized fertility, and it was the first time something of material value brought her comfort. She wore the necklace just above her chest, because nothing could get in the way of him finding his place in her heart.
2. He was the man she had always hoped for, ever since her childhood days of imagining friends and creating worlds where they could live in peace. This world wasn't meant to be her playground, and she knows the people in it will never bring her peace.
ii. She spent every day designing their future together. The walls of their bedroom would be a pale yellow to suit the boy's tastes, and the first token of his love would still be around her neck, clinging to the
about something shiny and gay
Then I thought I'd write a poem tomorrow
and each line would rhyme with "sad" and "sorrow".
I thought I'd write a poem for you,
about roses red and violets blue.
I thought I'd write a poem today,
about my ex- with cursing and rage.
I thought I'd write a poem about
clouds and sadness and anger and doubt
I thought I'd write a poem including
happiness and love and joyful hooting
I guess I'm writing a poem involving
my poetry enhanced, evolving,
I guess I wrote a poem to show
Life ain't always sun or snow.
I sat down and wrote a poem today
To show that life isn't always gay.
I sat down and wrote a poem on a pad
about how life isn't always sad.
Begging my wrist
For one chaste
Grinning at me, that evil smirk
Making my heart pound
So sharp so
I know I
And really I
Arm’s too full of blood
From attempts to
Join the stars.
Photo album of
My diary of my
I am still
but even gods will decompose &
what's dysphoric transit
without cyanosis bones?
But Itachi knew that she would not be fine. She was being ripped apart just then, torn in two, no matter how 'natural' the doctor claimed this experience was. No amount of mental or physical ninja training had prepared her for anything even close to this kind of torture.
There were very few instances wherein Itachi had shed tears. When she was two years old, and she had fallen down the steps to her porch was one, and a few other times when she was young and naive, barely old enough to form complete sentences. Those times she had cried for such silly reasons.
But now, at the age of fifteen, in a hospital inside of the Tea Country, Itachi threw her head back into the stiff pillow that had been presented to her and sobbed her heart out. She wailed and cried, and begged for everything to end. Sharp pains crippled her ability to form words, and she yelped in misery instead, clawing desperately at the sheets beneath herse
with your parasitic nervousness;
you're an anxious fever-boned boy
& you've got manic headaches
scrawled into gasoline anthems
like you don't know love's
only parasympathetic &
we're all romanticists
(you may have smoke-spiral fingertips, but
we've all got a knack for burning ourselves out).
Ask me if this was a choice,
this life that I live.
Ask me if I want
your prejudice and hatred;
to be excluded
simply because of
the people I choose to love.
Despite their gender.
Because now I want
to ask something of my own.
Simply I ask why?
Weighted silence falls
as you scramble for a thought
to try and change me.
For how can you spin
a web of twisted untruths
to weave me anew?
And simply I ask
why? Why would you even try?
no cavalry drum-beat
heart; disjointed, but
no lady lazarus,
no gold tongue &
you've never been
phantom pains & mediocrity -
a carbon copy, chlorinated
grey matter deity
of flickering cities &
burning mercury into my wrists
stygian sermon speakers -
they're all histrionics & sinners,
they're all purgatory dwellers
oh, hades, are you supernova dreamers?
'cause the poets are all dead-end kids.