ilyilaice's avatar
222 Watchers31.5K Page Views232 Deviations
I
I care not for your fleshly symmetry
You say pansexual like another name for undecided mind, perverted tart, but realize, deep down we're just the same but for the endless expanse of my heart. As fluid as the milk and honey fill a curvy vase or slender jar, I flow to suit your chosen shape, while droplets spill past hands uncertain where to touch or go. A puzzle piece that fits in every space, I lead the way or maybe fall behind with hips as home in leather as in lace and lips concealing secrets undefined. I care less for your fleshly symmetry and more about your soul, your poetry.
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Ophelia Drifting
Ophelia drifting down the stream, wildflowers tangled in between your fingers spasming just beneath the placid surface of your sleep. Those scarlet blossoms by your hands: either poppies strung in garlands or blood diffusing from your wrists when kissed by underwater beasts. Ophelia drifting, half-submerged, when lifted is but half a girl; the other half, by dark devoured by the ravenous nightly horde. In sunlight you ward off by name the monsters that you keep at bay; in moonlight they form shapes anew, chimeras come to swallow you. Ophelia, do not drift too far to wake by light of morning star, for though your dress is ren
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Coffee Reverie
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The Hamster in the Crystal Ball
Once upon a time, in an ore-mining kingdom beneath the ground, there lived a princess who feared nothing and a prince who feared everything. For all her life, the princess begged the king and queen to permit her to explore the vast lands above ground, just as they had allowed three of her brothers before her. However, her parents feared that, upon seeing the light, she, like her brothers, would never again return to the underground kingdom. Even so, the princess remained headstrong. She begged until she choked for breath, then slept, then woke, then begged again. Finally, for her eighteenth birthday, the king and queen granted their daught
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NaPoWriMo 2019 30: Lotus
Mid-blink, a warplane on the horizon glitches. Time, perhaps, to warp through portals to the past, to scrape the sky, to hurl myself like just another whirl of ash. Is it a waste, I wonder, of effort already expended? But no, it makes more sense for every rattle ’round my skull. Supplies for second chances strain against my shoulder blades. Health restored, damage reset. Blood soaking through bandages, like everything else, can be undone, can jump back in the pumping stream. I can cry, and try again.
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NaPoWriMo 2019 29: Sampaguita
Papa, with your face less folded, lips lopsided, free for once from the shawl shielding shivers from your shoulders; Papa, why do you wave at me so? Wasn’t I always your least favorite grandchild, the brat who couldn’t smile on command but would cry when held by hand? Papa, forgive me for custom-coloring you a card only to decorate your coffin with, for writing you that poem for your fiftieth anniversary. Love, I wrote of love, without even mentioning you or Mama by name. But did you realize I loved you all the same? Is that why you smile at me with forgiveness I don’t deserve, with ease so free of hurt?
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NaPoWriMo 2019 28: Anthurium
We line up love in a shooting range, ensnare it in flashbulb lights, eyes snapped wide in freeze frames, skins diced, the expanse of existence crammed into easily digestible cubes of sugar and fluff. Female locks mouths with male as they both sink and flail in lip-shaped loveseat hell. They seek to smash a record: longest kiss filmed before an audience of wolves salivating for more. The woman bleeds from eyes and ears, kiss bubbling metallic, manufactured as it is by chemical collision tried and tested by the man. Eras later, applause echoes hollow as roses bloom over gold-pinned breasts.
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NaPoWriMo 2019 27: Buttercup
Tell me, why does the sight of you in a fuzzy sweater and half-moon glasses fill me with such mirth? Explain why I wake from dreams of you fizzy with laughter, sunshine streaming when I sing all the world’s harmonies solo in the shower, humming softer at the pitter-patter of footsteps just beyond the door. You know we started with a bang and ended with a whimper, but God it was worth it, wasn’t it? One day you’ll whirl in a white dress. It will be spectacular, I promise you that. And I’m not sorry I won’t be there.
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NaPoWriMo 2019 26: Passiflora
Pervert that I am, I’ll empty my pockets for your pleasure if you pretend to be dead. Whiten your face, blacken your eyes, relish my pulse racing faster in the dark. After your name turns to static, shadows unspool behind my eyelids to try on my skin for size. I flounder against their hold, but they cling even tighter, grinding my bones to a halt. Fingers twitching with all the slowness of swimming after one strawberry wineglass too many, all the spirits in my bloodstream spiral into a single snail oozing over my mouth, snuffing out my screaming in slime. Footage filmed by paranormal investigators dissolves into a lionR
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See all
I
I care not for your fleshly symmetry
You say pansexual like another name for undecided mind, perverted tart, but realize, deep down we're just the same but for the endless expanse of my heart. As fluid as the milk and honey fill a curvy vase or slender jar, I flow to suit your chosen shape, while droplets spill past hands uncertain where to touch or go. A puzzle piece that fits in every space, I lead the way or maybe fall behind with hips as home in leather as in lace and lips concealing secrets undefined. I care less for your fleshly symmetry and more about your soul, your poetry.
6
8
O
Ophelia Drifting
Ophelia drifting down the stream, wildflowers tangled in between your fingers spasming just beneath the placid surface of your sleep. Those scarlet blossoms by your hands: either poppies strung in garlands or blood diffusing from your wrists when kissed by underwater beasts. Ophelia drifting, half-submerged, when lifted is but half a girl; the other half, by dark devoured by the ravenous nightly horde. In sunlight you ward off by name the monsters that you keep at bay; in moonlight they form shapes anew, chimeras come to swallow you. Ophelia, do not drift too far to wake by light of morning star, for though your dress is ren
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8
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FFM 2016 6: Birds Bring the Rain
They ran through the rice field, crops crunching golden underneath their bare feet, Lucia bounding ahead like she always did. “Wait!” Mateo gasped. “Listen! I. Need. To. Show. You. Something!” He tried grasping her saya, but it slipped out of his fist like buttery silk. The sun on her shoulder, Lucia stood on the crest of the hill and looked down at him. By the time he reached her, her black eyes gleamed with starry glitter. “What is it you wish to show me? Is it a new game for us?” The stars twinkled. “So you see, at the current state of things, weather at the archipelago is not exactly optimal.
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NaPoWriMo 2019 07: Rafflesia
They say I’m a beast. Yearning to stir a storm above a landscape as jagged as my own. Burning to stroke tremors down a breathing valley, soak my fingers in jars of liquid gold, when I cannot keep my own lid primly screwed. They call me an anomaly when I eschew the Adonis they’ve chiseled by my bed. I am a heretic when I topple their stone idols. A radical when I abandon the sweet-scented cadence of their language. An animal to want a mate sans blue-green plumage. A monster when I break things.
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The Hamster in the Crystal Ball
Once upon a time, in an ore-mining kingdom beneath the ground, there lived a princess who feared nothing and a prince who feared everything. For all her life, the princess begged the king and queen to permit her to explore the vast lands above ground, just as they had allowed three of her brothers before her. However, her parents feared that, upon seeing the light, she, like her brothers, would never again return to the underground kingdom. Even so, the princess remained headstrong. She begged until she choked for breath, then slept, then woke, then begged again. Finally, for her eighteenth birthday, the king and queen granted their daught
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Mattress Island
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Blacky
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Pink Smoke
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cosmic latte
small town diner jukebox casts 90's pop songs on a loop across creaking hardwood and paisley-print cushions; there's a mustard stain on the waitress's checkerboard apron, a run in her hose and fingernail polish flaking like dandruff into the burly corner booth truck driver's scrambled egg whites and hash, hold the salt. if this were wednesday, the perky brunette would be disheveled, sobbing into her on-again off-again's embroidered handkerchief while your food waits, forgotten, in the window... but it's thursday and they've made up and his breath is only slightly tainted by his addictions. instead, she flits a smirk at you over the pages of
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Oct 10
Philippines
Deviant for 10 years

Comments145

anonymous's avatar
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beeswingblue's avatar
Thanks so much for suggesting "Makeup Artist" for a DD. I'm really abashed; I don't know what to say. That poem is very close to my heart, and it means a lot to me that it touched you. Again, thank you. :blush: :heart:
ilyilaice's avatar
It's my pleasure! So many of your poems have touched my heart. :love: