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Literature
a skyline on fire
I was eight when I shuffled into the front room
with my fluttering fingers like birds
tugging at my own shirtsleeves. I told you, blushing,
how I’d pledged allegiance to the God of your serpents and stone walls.
I thought you were passionate and pious, my parent. I was eight,
and I had so much to learn. Like when I
was twelve and branching into my body.
You spat on my splintering limbs and cackled, ironic,
like a witch. Ironic because
you burnt me at the stake, in pieces.
Months later I buried my own remains
in a shoebox. I hope my ghost haunts that house.
You’d sneer to know that sixteen was the last time I stepped into a house
of worship. Since then I’ve stepped into myself. Body Electric
my bible. I wonder at my own wounds,
miraculous scarring of the sutures. I am risen! I know I
will rise and rise again. Your dove and olive branch
fooled me once. I take peace, instead
in the phoenix and its forgiving flames. I used to be so afraid
of fire, rememb
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Literature
rigor mortis
If I ever forget the way
your messiah child smiled at me,
her eyes and cheekbones cooing kindly
        You look great in your legs,
                I shouldn’t be surprised to feel my knees
        buckling beneath my ancient Roman body
        like pillars after siege.
     
I’ll always remember the way
you scolded me for my terror;
        The house is breathing, you’re alone here
                and I’d lie back with Jupiter eyes
        watching imagined shadows heaving
        on my checkerboard wall.
           &
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Literature
quilt (revised)
Two years later I meet your likeness again.
Taller this time, lighter eyes,
shaking your lowered head like a horse.
Less enthusiastic, I ask—you’re still alive?—
knowing now how murderous the quilted hands
can be. I bend at the waist, you push me from my own
sinking ship, and we hold each other’s heads like hands
beneath the frigid waters. Engulfed and drowning,
I think: I want to be buried in
the heavy lines of your face,
the same sad deep furrows
I find in the glass.
I want to lay in a bed of roses and listen
to the soft waxy corners of your mouth
that ripple when you smile, your smile
a linen shroud I can nest in
so I won’t shiver alone again in the damp dead ground.
This same hallowed ground
where I unearthed you.
I once pieced you together in the daytime,
spilling your scarlet fabric into
my anointed lap like wine.
Felt you, formed you,
stitched your velveteen brow—
When I saw you in the doorway
screamed,  You’re alive!
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Literature
bad habits
bouncing knees creaking
like some old oaks in a field
I’m sure I’ve wandered through.
I’m picking at my skin
like picking fresh raspberry thimbles
from my father’s bush in summertime;
I remember how the plump joints of the berry
fell apart on my fingertips, cracking wide
the hollow inside.
I’ve had too much coffee, and I’m nervous.
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Literature
quilt
I pieced you together in the daytime,
spilling your scarlet fabric into
my anointed lap like wine.
Felt you, formed you,
stitched your velveteen brow—
When I saw you in the doorway
screamed,  You’re alive!—
A regular Frankenstein dream.
The soft waxy corners of your mouth
that ripple when you smile, your smile
a woolen puddle I nest in,
shivering alone again at night.
When I’m shrugging through the couch cushions,
I cover my eyes; scale, instead
the ridges of your nose
until the bright pools of your eyes
smirk and sparkle beneath me.
I take that diver’s plunge, and hope to drown trembling.
I want to be buried in
the heavy lines of your face,
the same sad deep furrows
I find in the glass. Heart of gold
heavy in your chest,
I want to lay there and listen
to every whispering wail
feeling your hot tears like rain.
Two years later I meet you again.
You’re taller this time, lighter eyes,
shaking your lowered head like a horse.
Less enthusiastic
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Literature
burden, caged
I don’t know how to swaddle or shroud
the staccato siren song that swells
in my stomach some nights,
when Emma tells me, “You look fine,”
but I can’t believe it. My mother
used to parade my ballerina-slippered sister
while I paddled through earth
and snuck my snacks under kitchen counters.
I can feel the bird of my beauty
beating its naked wings against my chest,
but I won’t let it out. My other mother,
Madonna of the vendettas, scalded my tongue
with her scoldings. Ghosts can guide you
just as far as faith and friends
if you let them. Dying is a roadmap.
I’m an ass that plods along the beaten trails,
beaten by the monkey on my back.
Coward coward, it sings like Pinza.
I nod and nod and swallow my words,
bitter black as brandy. If I could speak,
I wouldn’t know how to say what I mean,
only mean what I say. Seeming to say
you’re tall as a god, meaning your eyes
are fists furled and there are bruises on my throat
from the hush
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Mature content
coming down :iconephemeraleloquence:EphemeralEloquence 4 8
Literature
i'm drunk and i wrote this song for you
afraid to go to sleep
don't wanna see you in my dreams
and wake without you here
without you here
your shadow is like the sky
hanging over me all the time
it's heavy like the sea
the things that could be
i wear your gaze upon my brow
it weighs me down, it keeps me down
what did it mean if not for love?
if not for love?
i've been a fool to hope again
was on the brink, now at the edge
if not for love, i could've been
i could've been
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Literature
smoke signals
you were swallowed in your coat
and I was swallowed in my shyness, choked
by your presence like a fist around my throat.
I was glad of the smoke
that wreathed my brow in obscurity
and gave me an excuse to hide my face in my hands.
You were sprawled and sedated, swaying
to songs I didn't recognize.
he kept whispering to you. I half imagined
he was whispering about me. I half hoped.
you watched the trembling embers
with eyes glazed and half-shut.
Tired eyes, I wished you would look up.
I wished you would look at me. I look at you,
and I don't dare close my eyes.
I try to read you like a folio, understand you like a theory.
I have my own
ontology, this theory
of being with you,
and how everything that has passed
can be renewed.
I carry every heartbreak like a scar beneath the sockets of my eyes,
swollen and blue when I awake without you in the mornings.
I want to rest my cheek
against the calming cold of your marbled knuckles;
the lavender of your skin
reminds me of my purple youth
when I
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Literature
begin again
your proximity like a promise.
your touch like the first page
    being turned.
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Literature
stifle
the february sun strikes me like a
violent lover in the fever of drink.
my breath is a disobedient child
that will not come. i feel it tugging
on the hem of my lungs.
in the heat of the sagacious sun,
i climb the steepest stairs. so
when you ask me laughingly why
the ragged breath, i can point and say
'look where i've come from'
and hope you'll understand.
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Literature
animal magnetism
If I was braver, I would die to myself.
I would slit my throat with these paper edges
so that the words I’ve wanted to say
could get free of all the fear.
The clicking of my heels on the concrete
would sound like so many Independence Day parade
fireworks, as I make my way to you.
I would be so bold, and you in your red coat.
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Literature
snowdrifts
I
10.13.16
I thought about you a lot today. I went for coffee with a friend, and as I leaned over the table, my elbows digging into the stained wood, I suddenly remembered the night I drove you home. That was the night I told you that I loved you in the only way I knew how: secretly. I wrapped my confession in layers of pretty, paper-thin euphemisms, and I handed it over to you shamefacedly, like I was giving you a birthday present two weeks late. You held it in the palm of your hand; you didn't know what to do. You smiled. I remember that. You laughed, but not at me. You laughed because it was the only thing you could do. Did I say you smiled? No, you grinned. You grinned so big I thought I was going blind. So much white. So much light where moments before, there had only been a muffled stillness as you whispered to me in the dark. You told me about your mother, your dead father, the brother away at school. You told me about your future, and I knew I would never be a part of it. Every
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Literature
promises
I’ve learned that just because a boy is named for a prince, it does not mean he is one. Just because his name is foreign, it does not mean his lips will taste like the sweet salt shores of a distant sea. Dark eyes do not promise mystery. Strong arms do not promise security.
I’ve learned that just because a girl is named for the spring, it does not mean she will be as rich. Just because her name is soft, it does not mean her words will blanket like new-fallen snow. Bright eyes do not promise mischief. Curved lips do not promise peace.
I’ve learned that just because you love someone, it does not mean they owe you their gratitude. Just because their name is heavy on your tongue, it does not mean they carry you like a stone around their neck. Sad eyes do not promise apology. Gripped fists do not promise goodbye.
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Literature
sleeping's no longer safe
I had this dream where you pulled me close, away
and you looked at me from under your eyelashes.
"Come on," "come here," a kaleidoscopic tumbling
of rushing warmth and hypnosis.
I grinned like an idiot. I followed you like an apostle.
I wanted to feel your grip again, just like that, on my arm.
The way you steered me into you. The way I felt
like a drifting ship in the night, and you tethered me.
You roped me in. I never knew a noose could feel
so much like an embrace.
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Literature
tremors
I cannot find you when the sun stays in,
swaddled in her cotton cloud covers.
You fade into the shaded cement
that is as cool and grey as your languid eyes,
and the hands you told me, Feel.
Like a child, I pet you shyly,
And I marveled at the thought,
    there are still places in this world
    no man has explored. Virgin soils,
    waters unstirred, beasts that do not tremble
    at the approach of a man.
   A wild naivete.
I wanted to whisper this secret to you;
I was dying to confide. But my skin
                                          against yours
said more than I ever could.    It said too much.
    Our symphonic synergy choked on your silence;
    I’ve never known a spa
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Pride

I AM PROUD

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Ashlynne
Artist | Hobbyist | Literature
United States
melancholia
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:iconshinyvaporeon258:
ShinyVaporeon258 Featured By Owner Aug 31, 2017  Student Filmographer
Just dropping by to say your work in poetry is beautiful, and what I've seen of your prose is pretty cool too ^^
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:iconephemeraleloquence:
EphemeralEloquence Featured By Owner Sep 7, 2017  Hobbyist Writer
Thank you, this means so much ❤️
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:iconshinyvaporeon258:
ShinyVaporeon258 Featured By Owner Sep 7, 2017  Student Filmographer
No problem :3
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:iconbreathe-by-claire:
Breathe-by-Claire Featured By Owner Aug 27, 2017  Hobbyist Traditional Artist
Thanks for the :+fav::hug:
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:iconangelserum:
angelserum Featured By Owner Jun 13, 2017
just wanted to say you look stunning in your id photo. c:
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