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About Literature / Artist tegan.25/Female/United States Group :iconminimalit: minimalit
Every word matters.
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Deviant for 9 Years
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millennial monsters
because we are so stupid,
they think that
our weak hearts whimper
in our uninspired chests,
that our blood pools like sludge in our feet
and fingertips,
that we aim our smiles vapidly
at our front-facing cameras
to capture nothing more than our
because we are so stupid,
they give us no choice
but to fight like dogs for atlas’s position—
but it might look good
on our resume.
(now, because we are so stupid,
we wonder why our backs hurt,
why it’s so hard to enjoy the world
when it’s resting on our shoulders, why
no matter how brilliantly our resumes sparkle,
our phones sit
on our desks.)
because they are so stupid
we will keep smiling at the camera
because we like to see our own sharp teeth
bared at the world.
we will grow out our claws,
and we will howl our songs,
and our muscles will become strong from the weight
that we carry
and our mouths will never remain silent,
lips always touching, tongue
trapped by teeth,
we will tear thro
:iconaprilwednesday:aprilwednesday 28 9
a retraction of august's horoscope
“aquarius, you have fallen in love with the storm again,”
the august horoscope reads.
it is almost—but not quite—correct.
for the sake of astrological accuracy
it might be revised to read,
“aquarius, you have fallen
in love—” (this part
may remain)
“—aquarius, you have fallen in love
in the sticky heat of summer,
the air as damp as your skin,
heat rising from the tarmac
of this flat swamp town.”
or perhaps, “aquarius,
it will not feel like a storm.
there will be no lightning bolts,
no thunder. there will be no fire
under your skin.”
“aquarius, your love will be slow and soft.
it will be the sound of leaves rustling and pages turning,
of songs sung quietly in a dark bedroom, of cell phones ringing
at the most inopportune moment.
it will be the smell of dinner cooking. aquarius,
your love
will be his body pressed against yours
as you sit on the kitchen counter at 2am
quietly drinking tea, and
it will be losing
:iconaprilwednesday:aprilwednesday 120 35
words to say to your reflection
i am a collection of dust and stars,
blue luster in a sea of inky void.
i am a tongue licking lips, clicking against teeth,
shaping sounds that matter.
i am the lightning that explodes in purple storm clouds,
four miles of haphazard beauty
on a lonely night.
i am the sea in autumn, still holding the warmth of a summer of sunlight,
though the air outside is cold
by now.
i am the snow at 6am.
i have not been touched, not stepped on. my surface is smooth as glass.
i am the snow at 6pm.
i am still beautiful.
i am the sound of rain just before sunrise
on a sunday morning.
i am the swirl of cream in a coffee,
blossoming and unfolding like a galaxy.
i am the smell of lavender
after a storm.
i am breathing.
:iconaprilwednesday:aprilwednesday 163 53
to read an alethiometer
dear moonfaced girl,
pig heart beating slow:
passion has never made the blood flow heavy
through your stagnant veins.
even the clean country air pollutes
your lungs
and tracing orion in the pinpricks up above on a clear night
won’t make your eyes look any prettier.
lies come easy on your tongue,
greed in your fingertips,
narcissism in every glance into the smudged silver
of a mirror;
you write poems
as though applying makeup--
everything in its place,
kohl thick,
mistakes purposeful and perfect,
all picked based on your mental snapshots
of the prettiest boys and girls.
you learned so well to show the world your beautiful portrayal
of someone else.
perhaps you will find yourself,
one day,
inkstained and feverish,
shocked with the rising of the sun,
words spilling onto the page with the truth
and veracity
that has always been missing.
perhaps you will surround yourself with ghost stories
and folklore and fairytales,
and find your heart waking up.
listen, now:
first it will match pa
:iconaprilwednesday:aprilwednesday 25 9
a family portrait
my father is an electric guitar.
he spends most of his time displayed on the wall,
shining when the light hits him just so,
hovering in the perfect spot.
he is not new, but neither is he old--
used so rarely, he would gather dust
if he were not kept so pristine.
the only music i’ve ever heard him play is
carefully rehearsed,
read off a page of inky black notes,
perfectly following the italicized instructions,
con amore

i never understood the words,
but they nestled in my psyche anyway.
i always thought he would be better if the instructions
were tossed away
and he was played instead of displayed,
his strings singing the wordless tune
of a mouth that knew what it would say
if it only had a voice.
my mother is a little black book,
filled cover to cover with tiny, illegible handwriting.
there are notes scribbled in her margins,
lists of wishes both practical and fantastic placed in columns,
some crossed off, some forever untouched.
she has handm
:iconaprilwednesday:aprilwednesday 49 19
enchanted forest by aprilwednesday enchanted forest :iconaprilwednesday:aprilwednesday 9 10 the sinking city by aprilwednesday the sinking city :iconaprilwednesday:aprilwednesday 4 2
a lie that tells the truth
please don’t write me as a ghost girl,
all blurry lines and faded features
that caricature themselves into the minds
of those that think they see me--
i am not a canvas.
my life is not a blank sheet for you
to paint your vision across,
and i have no wires in my bones--
you cannot pose me so i’ll catch the light
just so,
like a kaleidoscope of clever quirks
and tragic backstories;
i am written in the words i discard
when i write bad poetry at 3am, and if you look,
you can find me echoed back to you
in my all time top five favorite movies.
i am the way my hands hurt
when i get nervous;
i am the urge to speak italian,
even though after a year of classes, i can barely
say hello;
i am the calmness that hits
when i smell cigarettes, even though
i’ve never smoked,
and i am the grudges that have lingered
because i forget to let things go,
and i am the passive-aggressive comments
that i should be sorry for, but
never really am.
if you want, you can trace your pen along
the cre
:iconaprilwednesday:aprilwednesday 293 85
through struggle to the stars
before you were born,
you scraped per ardua
ad astra
onto the inside of your collarbone,
and injected glowing nebulae
in between your vertebrae
because you always loved finding shapes
in star clouds
and on your longest days now,
when the heat wraps its loving arms around you
in an embrace you can’t escape,
and the sun lays salty beads across your skin,
you trace your collarbone absently
and draw a little strength out of your spine
and you’ll stoop a little more with each passing year,
but that’s okay.
it just means the star stuff did its job right.
:iconaprilwednesday:aprilwednesday 24 13
the boy with twelve bracelets
the cobwebs of your past cling
to the inside of your ribcage
and gently strangle your heart.
when i saw you for the first time
i had already known you for weeks,
taken part in your gorgeous
conversations and watched you spread
laughter like a perfect virus
among all the people you met.
you wore twelve bracelets,
six on each wrist;
once upon a time they served
to cover a mistake you made
when you were thirteen,
but it wasn’t a mistake now
so much as a story
about a boy who was brave enough to keep breathing,
and you kept the bracelets just because their memory annoyed you
when you took them off.
that was what you said, anyway.
then i learned how sure you were
that you were only pretending
to be brave.
you wore a mirror as a face,
silver and starlike,
molded to your features and well-rehearsed
in reflecting just what you
knew people wanted to see
and one night,
terrified of seeing nothing but myself
in you
[and greedy to see your face]
i smashed the mirror.
i expected you to scramb
:iconaprilwednesday:aprilwednesday 48 26
blood-red wine and skeleton jazz
the day you left,
your cobweb dress clung to you in ways
that i would dream about for years,
in hot, fevered nights
when the moon thought it might burst
in the sky,
and even the wind wailed your name.
i remember how you called make-up war paint,
and you drew it across your face like a message
i could never decipher;
i remember how i got goosebumps when i heard
your heels clicking across the floor at 3am
when you finally got home and slipped into bed;
i remember longing for you with every fiber of my being,
feeling separate from you even when our clothes lay on the floor
and your fingernails dug into my shoulders
and your toes curled into the sheets.
you were always just out of reach.
i tried to break my fist against the wall
the day you left,
but i couldn’t punch hard enough
so i lay in bed nursing my bruised knuckles
and imagined you going to parties in hell,
drinking blood-red wine,
your skin glowing in the light of the flames,
decomposed corpses playing you
:iconaprilwednesday:aprilwednesday 32 22
femme fatale
i killed a poet once
spoke words that grated against his skin
until he was blistered and numb--
until the frozen night air could blast
right through his hungry body,
whistling around his ribcage
and icing up
his veins.
i destroyed a poet once
when i told him i loved him;
i thought it was the thought that counted,
but it didn’t that time.
not with those words.
i got so tangled up in
lying to myself
i forgot he could tell
i was lying to him too.
i bruised a poet once
left fingerprints and scratches
as i tore apart his favorite words
until there was nothing left inside him but
the hollow beat of his heart
and my voice
saying things that mattered more
than i ever meant them to.
i kissed a poet once
and i tasted blood.
:iconaprilwednesday:aprilwednesday 33 8
the day the lake turned into sky by aprilwednesday the day the lake turned into sky :iconaprilwednesday:aprilwednesday 6 6
chasing shadows
she swallowed the darkness like it was medicine
and didn’t stop until she knew it had turned to poison in her veins.
all she wanted was her skinny heart to shudder to a halt
and her blackberry blood to stop teasing her
from under the pseudoprotection of her skin
but poison doesn’t always work the way you want it to.
sometimes, like the wishes that a genie grants from behind his grinning mask,
poison likes to trick you into thinking you have control
until you’re too far gone to realize
or too far gone to care
so her skinny heart never stopped,
but her bones began screaming under her skin
and cobwebs wove themselves in front of her corneas
and the vines she had once used to decorate her throat began to constrict
until she could do nothing but hope that blue lips
were in fashion that season
and she went out at night and looked for the stardust that used to illuminate her darkness,
but she could see nothing but empty light
and hear nothing but the pale voices of the dead
:iconaprilwednesday:aprilwednesday 20 4
thimblefuls of milk
butterflies tear apart the inside of my stomach
and pristine paper crinkles under my fingertips
and the back of my neck itches from invisible eyes.
i like rabbits in my poems
and the sea in my words;
hipbones and collarbones and ribcages
and lungs that don’t work properly;
i like melancholy moments and shoulderblade wings
and toes curling into sand;
hot, empty summer nights under pitch black skies
and the smell of rain pounding onto tarmac
in my poems
and they tell you to kill your darlings
but i like mine quite a lot
so i feed them bowls of milk instead,
and let them sleep in matchboxes
on my dresser
and sometimes,
when butterflies tear apart the inside of my stomach
and pristine paper crinkles under my fingertips
they sit in the spot that i can’t quite see
and they tell me stories.
:iconaprilwednesday:aprilwednesday 18 9
ocean child
The ocean has whipped the bones within her into a frenzy; they clatter loudly, violently, as the wind shakes the silt from hair burnt the colour of autumn.
She breathes deeply. Shakily. She imagines, for a moment, that her bones sound like wind chimes, tinkling softly under the starlight; but the moment passes. Even wind chimes sound ugly when the wind gets too strong - and it has.
It strips him from her skin in too-thick layers. She watches him drift away within the embrace of his newest lover, cloud-tipped fingers holding him in all the places she never could.
When she thinks about it she feels nauseous. She wonders the things that everyone wonders, in moments like this one. She feels the things that everyone feels. She feels the ache under her ribs, the shiver in her lungs; she re-evaluates every word, every touch, every lingering brush of the fingertips; she tears herself in half trying to cling on to the memories she wants to forget. Her eyelids tingle, and for just a second she b
:iconaprilwednesday:aprilwednesday 14 13


Artist | Literature
United States
starry eyed 21 year old with a penchant for telling stories. six feet tall. idiosyncratic. wanderlustful. studies film at a tiny, haunted college on a lake in the middle of nowhere. suffers from a vague obsession with ezra miller. in love with fairytales and folklore and anything ghostly. likes it when the moon is so thin that it looks as though the breeze could shatter it into a thousand pieces. likes red lipstick. likes mix tapes. always happy to collaborate, critique, comment, or just talk. talking is nice. feel free to say hi.


"My cousin Helen, who is in her 90s now, was in the Warsaw ghetto during World War II. She and a bunch of the girls in the ghetto had to do sewing each day. And if you were found with a book, it was an automatic death penalty. She had gotten hold of a copy of ‘Gone With the Wind’, and she would take three or four hours out of her sleeping time each night to read. And then, during the hour or so when they were sewing the next day, she would tell them all the story. These girls were risking certain death for a story. And when she told me that story herself, it actually made what I do feel more important. Because giving people stories is not a luxury. It’s actually one of the things that you live and die for."
Neil Gaiman



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W4t3rf1r3 Featured By Owner Jan 28, 2018  Student Traditional Artist
Happy Birthday! :cake:
aprilwednesday Featured By Owner Feb 6, 2018   Writer
thank you!!!
sintel16 Featured By Owner Jan 28, 2017  Hobbyist General Artist
happy birthday :hug:
aprilwednesday Featured By Owner Jan 28, 2017   Writer
thank you! :heart:
sintel16 Featured By Owner Jan 29, 2017  Hobbyist General Artist
poeticisms Featured By Owner Jun 5, 2016  Student General Artist
Please follow me on linguistic-linguine. I cannot login to toxiicate due to some cache/IP issues, and an email has already been addressed to dA staff. In the case that I cannot salvage that account, please watch me here.
Orphically Featured By Owner May 26, 2016  Student Writer
hiya cutie ☆☆
did i tell you that you're amazing today??
i'm not gonna say you're beautiful (altho
you are) bc that invalidates your intelligence,
and you deserve to know that you're strong
and vibrant.

yes this message will be sent
to others but you're my friend and you
should know!!
aprilwednesday Featured By Owner May 30, 2016   Writer
Orphically Featured By Owner May 12, 2016  Student Writer
Good lord, I just discovered your page. I am utterly and completely in love. Thank you, for your wonderful work. Seriously. I look forward to reading the rest of your gallery. I'm an aspiring poet, so reading works from maestros always makes me happy :heart:!
aprilwednesday Featured By Owner May 15, 2016   Writer
oh wow, thank you so much! i'm so glad you enjoy my writing. your poetry is lovely too :heart:
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