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...watch the queen conquer...
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Writing About Loss...
Exquisite the open of it when without much gone. Make it in the other. Kiss but the kaleidoscope, because in the way, in the way wrapped, fingers because you. Your. That if without, there use. Your if, is, your because something for it, like that but still, but still wrapped, sorry, sorry, because and plans, sorry—
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friday night$
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Exploring the Possible
I wanted to write Pepsi summers, fireflylit mountains—but there are no fireflies in the Rockies, drinking caffeine isn’t my thing. Doesn’t count unless it’s addiction. Remembering comes from the collarbones, from blisters, from break.                                 * Dwelling becomes habit, shakable on every other Thursday in therapy when how are you doing trumps don’t talk about it; an hour becomes one maybe-year of coffee shops, a garden you might grow, books that will read words that do not mean “him.”
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Epuisement
But if fall and shake harder is just as bad. And years from now, wish different but it won’t become any so forward, here is the option. Here. Tomorrow might look like something else again, again from an absent vantage it might be clear. To talk in circles, make room for months of don’t know but there’s not, that’s not, it’s only as easy as probably you love me probably I don’t have energy to carry it. It’s out loud or it isn’t at all, hear it, listen, remember next time. Being tired lasts long alone. We could keep repeating ourselves, keep saying we used to, how we did. Unlearn every word if i
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Removed - based on Twice Removed by Ralph Angel
Slick sidewalks at too-early (but at too-soon-to-leave-you). Or watching flurries scatter the ground and wind blowing, blackness     swallowing, the car parked that looks like her ex-boyfriend’s, her throat playing in your laugh, her jeans torn and tomatoes the only thing in her house to eat, you eat when you get there. This ease. This difficulty. This heart that’s going so many ways at once. This     not-quite-lost pretty girl (although not-quite-found, she’s been drinking an awful lot, you’ve been hosting some of those parties you’d know what she looks like). Nothing spoken. Nothing told but when she tells
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Decalogue II - Minnesota Summers
It began with bats as sometimes, it does. Bat claws scratching. Bat voices chirping. Bat families squeezed between the stairs and the attic door. ———— Evening walk down only street, Crow River, dust clouds, tall browning grass, weeds in the irrigation ditch. The pheasant that burst up, scared the shit out of the dog. ———— Bat thwap landing on my mother’s bare thigh. Midnight. Hot sticky summer. Bat. Thwap. Thwap. Fuck. ———— Swimming in a t-shirt, river overflowing, afternoon downpour everything green everything grey. The screened in front-porch, my grandfath
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Decalogue I - Strange Marriage
There’s fog, tumbling. He brushes back hair from his face, checks how many steps up more. The next summer we climb this rock there is no fog, tumbling. We find beer cans emptied Tibetan prayer flags certainly not left by monks. ———— In the restaurant we joke how it would be if he proposed. We’d each have lovers we’d leave each other for but our house would be beautiful, another man’s kids and my husband’s boyfriends. ———— When I fell in love (each time) he still took me on dates. We lived together during a breakup, he slept in my room, drank whiskey, packed
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/love/
This is “I’m sorry”       for being a girl you could have married       but for being a girl you fell in love with because loving someone and telling them are not for being a young man who doesn’t pronounce words like they’ve been kind to him. This isn’t “I’m sorry” for the almost of it. This isn’t “I love you” because loving someone has much to do with having known him       and I doubt very much whether you’ve done that, either. Open-mouthed mirror-gazing with still-damp hair        and I get
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Coping
Write dancer poems, write when there are more bruises than bones, if I ask again—                         and it won’t change anything—                                                                             I still fell. He pours wine—it’s pink—into the mug my grandmother gave us (Christmas) but I still fell. The sprinklers; the softball field; raining. I still fell. I turned on the television. I went back to the hotel. I left you, drinking in a train station.                           Write no more love poems. Write when dying. Do not write drunk, write when very drunk, if I ask again—      
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Perpetual Angel (after Keith Ratzlaff)
Because the floor – coming, so solid – because go. My shoulder, the floor, the opening between because pain and because different. God knows and lately, (because the space between fuck you and maybe) God could ask around my knees and – because full – find the floor behind before. God’s upside down- ness on (because my belly on the floor) the yesterday. God’s rightside up- ness on (because my feet on the floor) the music.
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See all
W
Writing About Loss...
Exquisite the open of it when without much gone. Make it in the other. Kiss but the kaleidoscope, because in the way, in the way wrapped, fingers because you. Your. That if without, there use. Your if, is, your because something for it, like that but still, but still wrapped, sorry, sorry, because and plans, sorry—
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1
friday night$
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1
E
Exploring the Possible
I wanted to write Pepsi summers, fireflylit mountains—but there are no fireflies in the Rockies, drinking caffeine isn’t my thing. Doesn’t count unless it’s addiction. Remembering comes from the collarbones, from blisters, from break.                                 * Dwelling becomes habit, shakable on every other Thursday in therapy when how are you doing trumps don’t talk about it; an hour becomes one maybe-year of coffee shops, a garden you might grow, books that will read words that do not mean “him.”
0
1
E
Epuisement
But if fall and shake harder is just as bad. And years from now, wish different but it won’t become any so forward, here is the option. Here. Tomorrow might look like something else again, again from an absent vantage it might be clear. To talk in circles, make room for months of don’t know but there’s not, that’s not, it’s only as easy as probably you love me probably I don’t have energy to carry it. It’s out loud or it isn’t at all, hear it, listen, remember next time. Being tired lasts long alone. We could keep repeating ourselves, keep saying we used to, how we did. Unlearn every word if i
0
1
R
Removed - based on Twice Removed by Ralph Angel
Slick sidewalks at too-early (but at too-soon-to-leave-you). Or watching flurries scatter the ground and wind blowing, blackness     swallowing, the car parked that looks like her ex-boyfriend’s, her throat playing in your laugh, her jeans torn and tomatoes the only thing in her house to eat, you eat when you get there. This ease. This difficulty. This heart that’s going so many ways at once. This     not-quite-lost pretty girl (although not-quite-found, she’s been drinking an awful lot, you’ve been hosting some of those parties you’d know what she looks like). Nothing spoken. Nothing told but when she tells
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1
D
Decalogue II - Minnesota Summers
It began with bats as sometimes, it does. Bat claws scratching. Bat voices chirping. Bat families squeezed between the stairs and the attic door. ———— Evening walk down only street, Crow River, dust clouds, tall browning grass, weeds in the irrigation ditch. The pheasant that burst up, scared the shit out of the dog. ———— Bat thwap landing on my mother’s bare thigh. Midnight. Hot sticky summer. Bat. Thwap. Thwap. Fuck. ———— Swimming in a t-shirt, river overflowing, afternoon downpour everything green everything grey. The screened in front-porch, my grandfath
0
0
D
Decalogue I - Strange Marriage
There’s fog, tumbling. He brushes back hair from his face, checks how many steps up more. The next summer we climb this rock there is no fog, tumbling. We find beer cans emptied Tibetan prayer flags certainly not left by monks. ———— In the restaurant we joke how it would be if he proposed. We’d each have lovers we’d leave each other for but our house would be beautiful, another man’s kids and my husband’s boyfriends. ———— When I fell in love (each time) he still took me on dates. We lived together during a breakup, he slept in my room, drank whiskey, packed
0
0
P
Perpetual Angel (after Keith Ratzlaff)
Because the floor – coming, so solid – because go. My shoulder, the floor, the opening between because pain and because different. God knows and lately, (because the space between fuck you and maybe) God could ask around my knees and – because full – find the floor behind before. God’s upside down- ness on (because my belly on the floor) the yesterday. God’s rightside up- ness on (because my feet on the floor) the music.
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C
Coping
Write dancer poems, write when there are more bruises than bones, if I ask again—                         and it won’t change anything—                                                                             I still fell. He pours wine—it’s pink—into the mug my grandmother gave us (Christmas) but I still fell. The sprinklers; the softball field; raining. I still fell. I turned on the television. I went back to the hotel. I left you, drinking in a train station.                           Write no more love poems. Write when dying. Do not write drunk, write when very drunk, if I ask again—      
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l
/love/
This is “I’m sorry”       for being a girl you could have married       but for being a girl you fell in love with because loving someone and telling them are not for being a young man who doesn’t pronounce words like they’ve been kind to him. This isn’t “I’m sorry” for the almost of it. This isn’t “I love you” because loving someone has much to do with having known him       and I doubt very much whether you’ve done that, either. Open-mouthed mirror-gazing with still-damp hair        and I get
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099. Solitude
I'd rather just be alone right now, alone in my thoughts and my fingers, clicking away at the keys before me. They know how to make beautiful things. They know how to touch you, too. And I once thought that was beautiful. My solitude is a choice, similar to my anger. The sadness is not a choice, it is a state of being you created. But in it I can see that, through the solitude and anger, perhaps I can make my fingers forget. Once they forget, maybe I can forget you, too. If forgetting is what I want, like how solitude is what I want. I want to remember without pain, to be alone and yet able to be in company, to feel
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100. Relaxation
I lounge on my bed, lost in relaxation and feeling all of my muscles let go of their stresses. I am, at last, done with it. Everything is falling into place in slow motion, everything mending and easing and stopping the aching and yearning that has been so long my existence. I am, at last, finished.
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094. Last Hope
Any vestige of light has foresaken me now. There is no rain where there should be, would be if this were a movie. Not the romantic rain, either. The sad rain, when everything has deserted you. But I guess not everything. Because there are still things here, still reasons to cling to so that I don't fall into dark. The last hope, the fragments of how everything has been. The boy who might. The girls who will. The lines that I haven't written, but that I could, if they all inspire me. They are the last hope. Before the rain turns cold. And I want them to be my umbrella.
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095. Advertisement
I almost have to laugh. I almost wish I could just walk up to him, smile ironically and hang a sign around his neck and then head off, away from it all. It would be so simple, just a note to anyone who ever shows interest. "HEARTBREAKER" He'd be a walking methamphetamine advertisement. So frightening, so not enough to make you understand. "I WILL TAKE YOU AND DESTROY YOU. AND YOU WILL NEVER BE THE SAME. I WILL LOVE YOU AND ADORE YOU I WILL MAKE YOU SCREAM MY NAME. BUT ONCE I'VE HAD MY WAY WITH YOU I'LL LEAVE YOU ON THE STREET, A FILTHY CRAWLING ANIMAL TO WOLLOW AT MY FEET..."
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096. In the Storm
Somewhere in the back of my mind, I think I thanked God that night, for it being a still night, cold but not torrential as it could have been. It wouldn't have been as fun, in retrospect, to stick our heads out the window in the storm to exhale.
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097. Safety First
If I am to go insane, I would ask you for a favor. Please, please, think of my safety first. Put me in a padded cell and wrap me in a straight jacket. For I am a danger to myself, there's no sense in getting blood all over the white walls. And you know that I would create a stain if I could. Don't let me be a stain on your life...
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098. Puzzle
I willingly confessed, my heart was in scattered pieces and you offered to put me back together again. Your long-fingered silence, blonde hair and the red and black checked sweatshirt. You drew me my heart, a puzzle with a missing piece, and you offered me the piece, you put it back together again. You fixed me, so much more quickly than I assumed possible. And I'm beginning to fall in love with who and how I am now that you opened my eyes. You didn't tell me anything, but you taught me so much.
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092. All That I Have
Everything, all that I have, I gave it to you. I gave it to you and I didn't know how much that meant until it was done. Until it was done I didn't know I ever really mattered to myself. But now I do, I want it all back, I'll take it all back. And I'll let myself be whole again without you.
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093. Give Up
I'm almost verging on maybe feeling like a bitch. Alomst. Because I've done this to you, now, twice. But honey, as bad as I should feel, I just don't. You deserve it, to give up and wollow in self-pity because I got in your way. Again.
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090. Triangle
The long talks over the internet. The single-word inside jokes. The bursting into tears over phone calls. The laughing until bursting into tears over phone calls. The mutual hating of boys. The mutual loving of boys. The things that make them shake their heads. And our little triangle of sisterly love.
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Ballet
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Sex Education
When I was 8 years old I kissed my friend on the cheek without thinking. I still feel the playground gravel on my face the words “that's disgusting!” ringing in my head. When I was 12 years old I stared at the diagram on the board a woman and a man and I felt like that I did I liked boys and that was normal so it was my normal. When I was 14 years old I watched wet mouthed as a girl who hated me sneered the word dyke from a cupids bow mouth that I wanted to taste. When I was 16 years old I had my first boyfriend and so I couldn't be confused. His touch set fires in my skin and if my head turned when a woman walked past, w
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Creature
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The red root
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Soft blanket
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Spotlight

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Coping
Write dancer poems, write when there are more bruises than bones, if I ask again—                         and it won’t change anything—                                                                             I still fell. He pours wine—it’s pink—into the mug my grandmother gave us (Christmas) but I still fell. The sprinklers; the softball field; raining. I still fell. I turned on the television. I went back to the hotel. I left you, drinking in a train station.                           Write no more love poems. Write when dying. Do not write drunk, write when very drunk, if I ask again—      
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Spotlight

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Cutting
My thighs were first. Then my wrists. And shoulders. And fingers. And feet. Everything. Ripped out at the seams. I ripped them out myself, if only to avoid giving others the pleasure. I ripped them out hard, if only to teach myself a lesson: I deserved it. I ripped them out and all the while I sang to myself, unable to cry or scream for fear that it would make the pain less real. I joked about them. I laughed about them. I smiled about them, calling myself "the stupid emo kid" and believing it was true. It was true. To me. I deserved it. I needed it. I craved it. I wanted it. I breathed it. I worshipped i
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Jan 18
United States
Deviant for 13 years
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Kaefullness's avatar
KaefullnessHobbyist Artist
Thank you for the favourite :)
not-an-emo-girl942's avatar
not-an-emo-girl942Hobbyist General Artist
Thanks for the :+fav:!
fizzleout's avatar
fizzleoutHobbyist Writer
Anytime :hug:
serpergirl's avatar
Thanks for the favorites, buddy!
Adrianna-Grezak's avatar
Thank you for fav-ing my drawing! Feel free to follow me on Facebook [link] by clicking the "Like" button! 
fizzleout's avatar
fizzleoutHobbyist Writer
Of course!
Life-Is-Oppurtunity's avatar
Life-Is-OppurtunityStudent Writer
Thanks for the favorite!