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[?]
i write this letter for the small round creatures that can never understand: forgive me, for plucking apart your webs with clumsy fingers, for the spindly legs no longer grafted on your body, for the sink tubes slick with grease and matted with my hair, all the keratinous footholds you missed in your ignoble descent, forgive me and the wheel that cut your flesh in two, the pieces of shell under the grass, the boot on your tiny, pitiful heart — I did not know you then. I was a child then and all I could see were spindles and wings to hold onto, I envied you for your flight, your silk, your smooth ease, you crossed my path and I
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l
l'eau qui dort
deep in the caves, the rivers sleep and dream of sunlight in their limestone cages, the memory of sunrise on their liquid minds their limpid bodies an arrow aiming to quench a thirst deeper than themselves in that dark they look for fire or any warm place boiling as though in a fever they rise never have they asked for anything, sought anything, except for the stars they still remember they break against rock and now they are light as air as nothing and still they have no sun
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d
[do not speak to me of ice]
What a mockery it is, imprisonment in an imitation of yourself that can't die, your transparent flesh melding with your siblings' harried slippery bodies, becoming plasma in another body's blood even as the clear walls hold strong—did you know the hot breath that shaped those walls would undo you? but all your brethren ask for you to look like them. You're a near-copy of your own cage, the glass fingers grasping your smooth sides: will it slip through, the bone-thin breath trapped in your ribs, water to water and air to air? Speak, you cold child, the one with a frozen geyser for a spine, beneath a smile numb as enamel. You
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c
c
I stood at the cold cliff and looked into the even colder sea. The sea takes its name because ocean spreads itself too vast, too wide, and far too deep, and the foam that frosts the tips of the waves curve, see. See how it laps and strokes at the mouth of each stone cave. The stone wears away and bears the cut of the water with a smile. (They cut each other with a smile.) Listen to that voice. So easily does it curve into a circle, fork itself like lightning, become ocean. I breathe in the saltladen sky and wonder if I could drown in fog alone, or if only the sea would. The sky, dark as a purpling bruise that refuses to heal. One red eye ble
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i
il n'y a pire eau
Blood is a redder word than bleed, even with the high scream of each cradled e like escaping steam; see round hemoglobin os, like oxygen on hold an axe coming down — dull thud included — to sever breath from bone, limb from end. Red is a colour that says, Divide me by myself and leave nothing. I need absolution. Burn me. I will not break.
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C
Categorizing is not my strong suit either
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[?]
i write this letter for the small round creatures that can never understand: forgive me, for plucking apart your webs with clumsy fingers, for the spindly legs no longer grafted on your body, for the sink tubes slick with grease and matted with my hair, all the keratinous footholds you missed in your ignoble descent, forgive me and the wheel that cut your flesh in two, the pieces of shell under the grass, the boot on your tiny, pitiful heart — I did not know you then. I was a child then and all I could see were spindles and wings to hold onto, I envied you for your flight, your silk, your smooth ease, you crossed my path and I
0Comments
1Favourites
l
l'eau qui dort
deep in the caves, the rivers sleep and dream of sunlight in their limestone cages, the memory of sunrise on their liquid minds their limpid bodies an arrow aiming to quench a thirst deeper than themselves in that dark they look for fire or any warm place boiling as though in a fever they rise never have they asked for anything, sought anything, except for the stars they still remember they break against rock and now they are light as air as nothing and still they have no sun
0Comments
1Favourites
d
[do not speak to me of ice]
What a mockery it is, imprisonment in an imitation of yourself that can't die, your transparent flesh melding with your siblings' harried slippery bodies, becoming plasma in another body's blood even as the clear walls hold strong—did you know the hot breath that shaped those walls would undo you? but all your brethren ask for you to look like them. You're a near-copy of your own cage, the glass fingers grasping your smooth sides: will it slip through, the bone-thin breath trapped in your ribs, water to water and air to air? Speak, you cold child, the one with a frozen geyser for a spine, beneath a smile numb as enamel. You
0Comments
1Favourites
c
c
I stood at the cold cliff and looked into the even colder sea. The sea takes its name because ocean spreads itself too vast, too wide, and far too deep, and the foam that frosts the tips of the waves curve, see. See how it laps and strokes at the mouth of each stone cave. The stone wears away and bears the cut of the water with a smile. (They cut each other with a smile.) Listen to that voice. So easily does it curve into a circle, fork itself like lightning, become ocean. I breathe in the saltladen sky and wonder if I could drown in fog alone, or if only the sea would. The sky, dark as a purpling bruise that refuses to heal. One red eye ble
0Comments
0Favourites
i
il n'y a pire eau
Blood is a redder word than bleed, even with the high scream of each cradled e like escaping steam; see round hemoglobin os, like oxygen on hold an axe coming down — dull thud included — to sever breath from bone, limb from end. Red is a colour that says, Divide me by myself and leave nothing. I need absolution. Burn me. I will not break.
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C
Categorizing is not my strong suit either
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C
Categorizing is not my strong suit either
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  • Canada
  • Deviant for 3 years
  • She / Her
My Bio
See, I tend to post a lot in a sitting then leave
...for a long time, too. Ciao.
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Stop, you talented people
The sheer amount of quality, humiliatingly exquisite sculptures, prints, paintings, and miscellany on DeviantArt is staggering. The only thing I haven't found is good literary criticism. This is, first and foremost, a visual arts site. I would have made an account long ago, but looking at all the gorgeous, superior artwork made me feel small and worthless. Haha. I'm just being bitter and self-pitying. No, really, guys, keep it up: your artwork is beautiful and should be shared with the world, I think; I should not seek to clip your wings. Fly, you glorious, metaphorically feathered bastards.
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Preemptive Criticism
So in the summer of 2015, I decided that it was high time that I acquired an Internet presence, stopped scribbling to myself in the corner of my room, and received some critiques for my writing. It's now the March of 2016, and I have received exactly half a criticism. And it was phrased in the overpolite, hypereffusive manner I adopt to try not to offend the person I am critiquing as to not ruffle their delicate sensibilities. Perhaps I'm not going about this correctly. Perhaps I need to BEG for criticism, threaten the people who lavish new people with praise either because they're afraid of bruising our sad, pitiful egos or because they ha
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