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About Literature / Artist Grae MatternFemale/United States Recent Activity
Deviant for 7 Years
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Literature
some poems are too personal for the first person
1. the sheets are on the floor but you
move around a lot when you sleep. the room smells off
but it’s not exactly an expensive hotel. you’re sore
as you get out of bed, but you can’t find your phone
and that’s the bigger issue here.
2. you explain away your own crime scene.
3. it’s not until you’re changing clothes at the airport
that you see the bruises on your hips
and you remember just enough to know
that you’ll never forget what happened last night.
4. you gave him a fake name because that’s what you do
when you don’t want to be yourself.
skylar struts like she’s hot stuff. autumn slams back
vodka shots like they’re water. maisie flirts
like it’s second nature. and winnie goes to ireland and gets
raped after too many drinks
and she doesn’t even realize it
until she’s catching her plane home.
5. you’ve never bought into the idea that your body
is a temple but it’s only after someone
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Literature
the third time i call, you pick up and i say
yesterday i walked past the diner where we fell in love,
and i thought i saw the waitress wave at me as i went
by and i realized that the most terrible thing
in the whole world would be you rereading all those text messages
i sent you when i was stupid in love. those weren’t meant for you, okay,
those were for the boy who split his milkshake with me and
held my hand through an entire season of Friends and
sat with me in silence on dirty rooftops while we smoked stolen cigarettes.
look, i didn’t even mean to call the first time, but i was
drunk and high and cold and my old favorite song
came on the radio and i remembered how much you used to hate it
and my chest got so tight thinking about all the ways
we wouldn’t recognize each other anymore and i felt like i wouldn’t
ever be able to breathe easy again until i knew if your
favorite color was still purple. if it is,
don’t tell me. i think knowing that there’s
bits of the version of you that i loved mi
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Literature
mistletoe
it’s Christmas, so you sleep with him.
it’s Christmas and your family is thousands of miles away
and you’re lonely and it’s snowing ad he drove you home and
he let you pick the first movie and he picks the second one,
a comedy you’ve never heard of before and when he laughs,
he looks at you to make sure you’re laughing too,
so you sleep with him.
and maybe you always thought you would be in love with the first person
to bruise your body in places only you and the mirror ever see,
maybe you thought he’d be younger; maybe you thought you’d be. maybe
you thought the lights would be on or your underwear would match
or you would feel ready instead of easy. maybe you thought there’d be
flowers and mix-tapes and permission, or that you’d have a better reason
to sleep with someone for the first time than that it’s Christmas
or it’s snowing or you're afraid to say no because then he might leave
and then you'd be alone tonig
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Literature
kairos
on the day we are supposed to meet,
i will be too sad to get out of bed.
destiny will knock insistently on my door, will
stick its head through the opening and call my name,
softly and then louder when i do not respond.
it will pick its way through the chaos of
my bedroom, over shoes and socks and sweaters
i haven’t worn in a week and shake my shoulder.
i will close my eyes and roll over.
i will have eaten too much the day before. i will have not
eaten at all the day before. i will feel like my hands
are only good for dropping second chances on the floor next to
dirty underwear and last week’s failed midterm and half full cups of
cold tea. you will
not love me.
or you will and it will fracture anyway. you will
and it will start out soft and beautiful, and even if
i will not like the way you load the dishwasher, even if you will
not understand why i never let you see me without makeup,
even if we will sleep back to back some nights and none of our friends will
get along
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Literature
the moment you become more than a one night stand
it’s half gone four in the morning and i should be looking at nothing but the backs of my eyelids
but i can’t bring myself to tear my eyes away from how beautiful you look
with my bed sheets all tangled around your body
and your hair all tangled around your face and your eyelashes brushing your cheek
every time you blink like this will be the last time before you go to sleep,
but our mouths haven’t stopped moving in one way or another since you locked the door for the night,
and the longer you talk about your grandmother's favorite knitting pattern
the more sure i am that it's too late to leave this room without leaving half of me behind
and that scares me more than anything else
and it makes my heart beat faster than it ever has before,
and trust me i've spent enough time hanging around bridges to know
that there’s no way to stop falling once you’ve started,
but i've never seen anyone look so beautiful in the light of the sunrise
so i brush your hair away
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Literature
toeing the edge of the rubicon
freshman year of college,
i break the first rule of dorming with someone else:
i touch her stuff. it’s october, and just starting
to get cold. i wear a sweater and a jacket at all times now,
but i’m always caught off guard by the rain.
i don’t watch the weather reports anymore;
this has something to do with
why i am on my roommate’s side of the dorm,
but i do not connect the two.
it takes me an hour. it shouldn’t,
but it does. i stop to look out the window, to examine my hands,
to wonder why they are not shaking.
i stop to write, but i don’t get much farther than
“dear mom and dad” before i give up.
my roommate won’t come home for at least
one more day. i have all the time in the world.
all the time i have left could fit in the palm of my hand,
and there’d still be room for the pills.
the thing is, my roommate gets sick a lot.
chronic migraines, asthma, the works. i watched
her unpack all her pill bottles the first night on ca
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Literature
why i do not know how to introduce ed
some days i wake up and my stomach says, “i am hungry.”
and my brain says back, “good; eat.”
and i have breakfast, lunch, and dinner, and my brain says,
“you are human, you are human, you are human, and this is what humans do.”
and i feel okay and i do not think much about why this is strange.
it is cereal at nine, a sandwich at half past twelve, and supper at
a quarter to seven. on these days, my stomach is quiet and
polite. my brain is also quiet, but with the intensity
of one who is preparing for war. still,
i never see it coming.
then some days, i wake up and my stomach says, “i am hungry.”
and my brain says back, “good; eat and do not stop eating
because it is what you are good for. it is
all you are good for.” and suddenly i am stranded in
a flood of food i do not want like i should, but my stomach
keeps saying, “i am hungry, i am hungry, i am hungry,”
like being hungry is all it knows how to be, like it is a
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Literature
an hour after losing
when i walk into the bathroom, with dawn
breaking her fingers to squeeze her hands through the windows
at the end of the hall, i am surprised to see a girl at the corner sink.
i expected to be alone to wipe at my face, to press gentle fingers
against the tender skin of my neck, to pull up my shirt
and check the visibility of my ribs
and the flutter of my heart, to stare at my eyes in the shitty mirror
in the shitty lighting and calculate all the little changes that a boy’s hands
can wreak on a body in under an hour. but she
is there at the corner sink, scrubbing at her red and irritated cheeks
like she is lady macbeth trying to erase the ghost of a touch
that never left a physical mark. i have makeup and sweat sticking
to my skin and knots in my hair desperate fingers left behind
and i’m not sure my shirt is my shirt and i just want
to be alone to examine the damages and count the casualties
of a war whose victor i could not point to,
and really, the only reason i walked in
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Literature
and we were angels dancing on the heads of pins
it has been a long year. i realize this over and
over again as i swing the car around country road curves
and eat up miles like i am starved for them.
my fingers are tight on the wheel, and it feels like if i let go
even for a second i will not regain control. all year i have wanted
to run away, and now i am here with nothing stopping me
except—
your breath hits the side of the window
and billows up the pane. the music is a soft hum
in the background and the dying sun
tints the tips of your gold hair red. it has been
such a long year. i know you know this as well as i do;
we are both standing over open graves, moved to tears,
throwing in time zones like dirt to cover the bones
of the versions of us that had to die for you and me to exist.
it has been a long year, i say. it is time to move on, you say.
whatever battle we’ve been fighting has been won.
by who, i do not know,
nor do i dare ask.
it should be enough that it is over.
yes, there are too many days i trade feet for
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Literature
palimpsest
1. “so have you, like, ever fallen in love  with a straight girl?”
she asks. “i bet it’s like, totally awkward.”
i laugh and stutter through a no that comes out
sounding too much like your name, and then you are there,
slipping into my mind without knocking, like you have any right
to come back unannounced. it has been months since you called.
i suppose that counts as awkward, but when people say awkward,
i think of teenagers skinning their knees tripping after each other,
of the sound of knives scraping dinner plates during sunday supper—
i do not think of your voice when you tell me you have found
the perfect boy, of the way your eyes cut away from mine
immediately afterwards, so you do not have to see me ache.
i do not think awkward is the right word.
2. but god, you had beautiful eyes; i spent an entire winter
telling you that, hoping if i could just get that one truth
out in the open, i could hoard the rest of them to me like stolen gold.
i
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Literature
ode to my great-great-great-great grandmother
you shake sometimes. i imagine you shiver,
then tuck your shivering hands in threadbare pockets,
get back in long lines that always end in
‘No Irish Need Apply’; i imagine you apply anyway
as some small act of rebellion, some last desperate
far-flung attempt to prove that you did not
cross oceans for this.
i imagine that i must have inherited
your backbone, that if someone traced my spine
back generations, they’d find your own strength
deep in the marrow of my bones.
you and me, we share the same blood.
maybe the same dreams. and i shake
like you did, hide it as well as you did. stuff it
deep within my coat pockets, until i forget
it is there, until i can look up and
demand a ticket to a brand new world.
i have spent the last month thinking about you.
thinking that if i could, i would hold your hand,
tell you that everything turns out okay, even the things
you never thought possible, tell you there’s still
a you where i come from. i have thought you
forwards and
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Literature
epitaph
the girl i did not run over
looks at me with eyes that say
that i am part of the problem,
when i could have been her solution,
looks at me like she’s blaming me
for swerving away, like she’s measured
every one of her steps from her door
to the curb, and i am the one thing she failed
to account for.
i almost double back to try and tell her
all the same things that i have been told
but i do not. her feet are too heavy, by now.
her stomach too hollow. she does not
need more empty words to swallow, she does not need
stop signs or yield signs or ‘for the love of god
think of everyone you are leaving behind’ signs.
i do not double back but i think of her eyes
for the longest time, think about them
so much i pick them out of every obituary
i read and every graveyard i pass. she has become
a marble mausoleum to me, a girl with too little
blood holding onto the souls of all the people
who people like me bulldoze over. i swerved
for her, but there must be countless other
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Literature
ace of spades
1. i come out wrong.
well, no, sorry.
i come out loudly. i tell my friends
almost immediately, before
the puzzle is even halfway complete.
i tell them that given the opportunity
and the consent i would probably
fuck the waitress that waved at us
as we walked in. but the words
aren’t as true as i want them to be,
mostly because i don’t want to fuck her,
i want to hold her hand.
i want to be the one that gets to hug her
from behind and kiss her cheek when she’s sad.
i wanna know if she’s afraid of
thunderstorms, i wanna know if she
builds blanket forts, i wanna know
her stance on eskimo kisses and if she
would let someone like me be
her little spoon.
but there’s not a word for that,
so i say fuck when really i mean cuddle,
and i come out wrong.
2. when he kisses me, i try
my hardest to think about fireworks,
but inside me there’s nothing
but a clock ticking in my head,
counting the seconds until
i can be not kissing him anymore. i pull back
because my
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Literature
a year in the rearview mirror
Dear Past Me,
A couple of months from March, you will forget about this book. You only ever wanted to fill it because your sister gave it to you, anyway. One day you will realize that maybe she never treated you right. That’s not really her fault, but you won’t be able to look her in the eyes for the longest time. You still can’t, not really. You’ve started trying to rebuild bridges that you burnt down between you and her, but it’s hard to create when all you have is a box of matches.
You don’t win your poetry competition—you will tell everyone that you knew you had no chance, but you and I both know you’ve seen too many movies to not have wanted the basketball to go through the hoop from the middle of the court with a second left to spare. You will not keep in touch with anyone from the competition. You will say that you do, but you don’t. That’s okay. You’re okay.
You’re more than okay. You’re loved. I know
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Literature
in congratulations on your recent nuptials
i have spent the past three nights shaking and
thinking about how many poems i would write if i knew
where to send them. don’t think that i’ve forgotten you,
please, because i promise i haven’t. i still remember how you
take your eggs on saturday and how you make yourself
fall asleep when it’s four a.m. and you don’t want to leave yet.
it’s more than that too, okay, i remember your body,
firm against my body, your voice in my car,
your hair ties around my wrists, your chest rising
and falling with every one of my heartbeats.
you were
all my poems. you were everything significant.
you were my late night tuesdays and the only thing that
got me out of bed on wednesdays.
you were too risky to let go of, you were always
too much to hold.
i’m sorry i don’t know your new address.
but i still have the old one on me somewhere, pressed
into the soles of my feet and the gaps between my teeth.
i remember who we were there, hiding behind
your garden s
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Literature
gravedigger
dear sarah,
i wonder
if sometimes you can still feel the weight of your bed sheet
around your neck. heaven knows there were days i could count every thread.
last night i was cleaning up my desk, and i found the scissors
i used to crack my skin open four years ago
and when i went to throw them out, it felt like moving mountains
or graves. if you don’t know yet, you’ll learn that some types of grief
leave scars—some ghosts don’t know how to stay buried.
you will stumble through the rest of your life wondering if you will
one day forget how it feels to toe the edge of the cliff and turn the other way.
the answer is no. there is a precipice. there will always
be a precipice. a part of you will always want to throw yourself
over the edge. somehow, you never will. no one will notice.
to them, your race is over. you have cleared the last hurdle.
you have gone one month, three months, six months, a year without
turning your blue blood red. you have won your war. congrat
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lol well

Favourites

Literature
only speak when spoken to
i lost myself in the voi(ce/d) of feeling
and drifted away,
inching closer and closer to the edge of the rubicon every day
until i was so silent it was like
i'd never existed in the first place.
so i stopped trying to speak up
and i stopped trying to speak
and the next time someone tried to talk to me
without listening
i bit my tongue so hard it bled.
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Literature
god is probably gay so at least there's that
after danielle
i say talking is a superpower i do not always have. i say the only thing i understand is the moon. i say the stars are toothy and young yet and i feel old.
you say god is probably gay so at least there's that.
i say i've clothed myself in the trees of this city and it isn't enough. i don't fit into my jacket. i have sewn my jacket into my shoulders and it isn't enough. i say i have bitten into the soft rawness of the sky and tasted blood and it isn't enough.
you say you know the feeling when you sink into yourself for comfort but it's sharp instead? yeah. that's what this feels like.
i say i'm suffering for trying to leave the past behind. i say i'm chasing a mountain that doesn't exist. i say my bones are pulling backwards and it's the hardest kind of gravity.
you say mountains are quicker beasts than they look. you say we're going to fuck shit up. you say we're driving up a storm in here. you say we're going to stand in the sunlight when our shadows grow long an
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Journal
never say goodbye, only see you again :)
i've been on this site for 8 years, various hiatuses/different accounts. these last few months, i started a journey i never thought to endeavor before (in terms of spirituality) — and so, here i am. 
dA has been the greatest tool in developing my writing style. i couldn't be more blessed. writing was never a hobby for me, it was always a means to an end. and that end is still a goal/dream i am working towards. but somewhere along the way, i stopped growing here. i found my style, became comfortable with how i wrote, and stopped growing. i'm still writing (and will be for as long as i'm alive), but i won't be posting anymore.
there is a project i have been working on that i'll be revealing, with a little time. it's the complete opposite of anything i've ever done here, mostly because my approach has 180'd in change. you'll see what i mean soon :rose: 
in the meantime, i'm always getting through the thousands+ deviations by all of you that i'v
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Journal
february in retrospect (2017)
some gorgeous work this month <3
inthespacebetween 

we breathe indigo.
bluejay
andbutso
aquarius
drowsydoe  
bloody bleeding beautiful

MisfitableGrae 

toeing the edge of the rubicon
<a href="http://fav.me/dav92k0">
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Literature
portrait of rosalie
my grandmother devours
photo albums
like i devour
sylvia plath anthologies,
mémoire aprés mémoire aprés
mémoire.
memory after memory
after memory.
she tells me the same story
about her first job
without a car
five times over,
looking away
to another
world,
black & white to me,
but full-color to her.
alzheimer's is a language.
like french, it is
just another part of her.
she does not remember
conversations from a week ago
or to turn over laundry,
but she remembers
bus rides in the south, pre-1964,
white weddings in
grey cathedrals
that are shopping malls now.
i have learned to translate
her repetition,
the ways she can tell
the same memory
again and again
like it is the first time.
for this, too,
is language:
the new inflections in her voice,
new details,
the tears that frequent
her glassy eyes
like uninvited guests
she lets in anyway,
street beggars
she has already fed,
she cannot remember to stop loving
my grandmother's
alzheimer's
is a neologist,
re-inventing
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Literature
An Open Letter To My 12 Year Old Self
Dear me,
This isn't your best year, but it isn't your worst either. This is the year you start to find yourself. Don't let people tell you who you are.
You're going to experience some things that will completely tear you apart, you'll feel like the world's against you. Write your feelings down. I know you're gonna want to pick up that razor, but trust me, write your feelings down instead. Those scars don't go away, try not to give yourself more of them.
Your mom doesn't hate you, she's trying to protect you. I know it doesn't seem like it, and I still don't agree with how she did it, but you'll realize soon enough and you'll forgive her. She's one of the most important people in your life, don't do or say anything stupid.
I know it seems like you're never going to be happy again, but you're going to meet some people soon and you'll wonder how you ever survived without them. Don't let them go. Tell them you love them every chance you get.
You're going to be okay. Just keep writing
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Journal
If I Could DD: Literature
If you could give Daily Deviations to literature, what pieces would you choose? Having once been in the position to do just that, I've learned it is a much harder job than you realize! Nonetheless, here are a few of my favorites that I would give DDs to, had I the option!
You can join in this project as well! Full details about this event run by the Community Relations team can be found here: Community Feature Project: If I Could DD
I hope you'll enjoy these selections! :heart:

A Worse Better Place by BlackBowfinA State of Flow by Nichrysalisto the left is uncertainty, to the right is death by ghostinafogan hour after losing by MisfitableGraeGarden by fainting-goat
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Journal
november in retrospect (2016)
i've decided that at the end of every month i will put together a compilation of works that i've saved to my "best" collection. they are works that deeply resonate with me, works that i feel deserve more attention. i will feature them here. 
here's to the best works of the month.



utopia is a synonym for dystopia.
by inthespacebetween 


living proof

by celestialparanoia 


art history boys

by pansydiv 


jarring clay

by @
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Journal
Exposing the Unexposed Vol. 18










Milli by Bagirushka
griffins by da-bu-di-bu-da
Passerby by OrangeSavannah
galaxy texture by mayakern
Holiday on the farm by alanleal22
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Literature
dear katie.
i.
yesterday 
you felt the first heartache
that really mattered.
now you've become
a virgin painted black
biting your lip
and cultivating your bitterness.
but Katie, Katie,
it's not the last time.
you're gonna wind up
with bloodied knees
more times than you can count,
and you're gonna spend
many nights that leave
old-road potholes
dripping into your pillows. 
You're gonna panic
and almost crash your car.
you're gonna say infinite
hellos and goodbyes
in the span of a moment
and at times
you will feel like an apple tree
planted in a jam jar,
crushed and misplaced.
but Katie, 
I'd be lying if I said
you won't grow.
ii.
you were wrong
every time you left without
saying goodbye,
and you were wrong
every time you went to sleep
without saying "I love you"
or giving a kiss goodnight.
you make mistakes
more often than not,
but you fix it.
or you learn to live with it,
that's the only way to recover.
iii.
you'll fall in love.
real love.
it won't be like
that boy or that <i>
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Literature
love letter to the state of florida
1.
i am not in love with you.
i left you when the leaves turned and i'm back for now,
but only 'til i muster the strength to hoist my bags & run away
for good.
believe me, it's not that you're not paradise,
because i've had my fair share of briny breezes & tequila sunrises
and i too have caught myself with my toes in the sand for a tad
too long.
blinding white is just too opaque for glass houses and you know
the way the sun shines at midday, that'll melt your face right off
if you stare long enough--
trust me, i know a guy.
2.
last saturday i saw your face on the cover of a national geographic
at the doctor's office,
they caught you singing in the misty rain, voice sweet i remember
like honeysuckle & orange blossoms in the summertime,
there were strands of sargassum woven into your hair, it smelled of
fresh dew, it stole the sun in handfuls and waltzed with the wind
around your shoulder blades;
i found angels sleeping in the crook of your back, skin golden honey
opening to catch saltsp
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Literature
ace of pentacles
I am sick, fractured. Cowled in the shadows
cast by the shards of my sanity,
bewitched by the stillness of
my heart 'tween beats.
So overwhelmed by my own
fragility, that I never
thought to ask
Why I felt like a lost boy exiled from Neverland, and yet never
interested in dates nor stolen kisses. All I knew
was what I wasn’t-- All I thought
that left was broken.
Until I found a tarot deck;
The arcane tools soothing something
I had forsaken. I overturn the top card
and the embossed image of a single pentagram
imprints itself into my fingertips, I feel I am coming home.
I’ve developed a love for playing cards--
Particularly aces and fools, yet suit still confounds;
For neither heart nor spade encapsulates. I am neither,
yet I am both-- Something new. I build myself in diamonds.
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Journal
Daily Lit Recognition for May 9th, 2016
Daily Literature Recognition for May 9th, 2016
 
Featured Author of the Day
Suggested by: comatose-comet
Our featured author of the day is: MisfitableGrae :la:
Suggester says:
Narrowing down three poems from the superb gallery of MisfitableGrae
is no easy task. A tremendous writer with a mastery of imagery and emotive language, it is difficult not to 'feel' along when reading one of her poignant explorations of the self. In particular, her writings about love and
sexuality stir the heart but her entire gallery warrants close reading.

An honest and free-flowing
exploration of asexuality.

"you were
all my poems"
A line that summarizes every writer's heartbreak without
detracting from each person's unique experiences.
An absolute powerhouse of a poem.

A poem that will hold you from the
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Literature DD Round Up: April 2016
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Bygone Days by yuumei Bygone Days :iconyuumei:yuumei 16,370 330

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1. the sheets are on the floor but you
move around a lot when you sleep. the room smells off
but it’s not exactly an expensive hotel. you’re sore
as you get out of bed, but you can’t find your phone
and that’s the bigger issue here.

2. you explain away your own crime scene.

3. it’s not until you’re changing clothes at the airport
that you see the bruises on your hips
and you remember just enough to know
that you’ll never forget what happened last night.

4. you gave him a fake name because that’s what you do
when you don’t want to be yourself.
skylar struts like she’s hot stuff. autumn slams back
vodka shots like they’re water. maisie flirts
like it’s second nature. and winnie goes to ireland and gets

raped after too many drinks
and she doesn’t even realize it
until she’s catching her plane home.

5. you’ve never bought into the idea that your body
is a temple but it’s only after someone’s used it as their playground
that you realize how often you thought it was holy, and now
it isn’t now it’s stained with fingerprints  you didn’t agree to
and you’re frantically googling how to make bruises fade faster
without having to acknowledge them, and you’re coming up
empty.

6. you know the metaphors. you’ve written the metaphors
into pretty poems that fell easily out of your mouth. but none
of those metaphors come close to describing the way your heartbeat
kicks into warp speed and you can’t feel your arms or your legs
but you can see every crack in the plastic stall door—
your body is in fight or flight mode but
someone needs to tell it it’s several hours too late and this
is the aftermath.

you’re in your aftermath

7. someone needs to tell you how to forgive yourself
for getting so drunk you pass out with only a stranger for company.
someone needs to tell you how to forgive yourself for not fighting back.

8. you always thought you’d fight back.

9. katie wears short skirts and crop tops without feeling
self-conscious. aimee loves dancing in clubs and singing karaoke.
gracie doesn’t say no when a boy wants to buy her a drink. and winnie
doesn’t get the choice to say no or not.

10. there are no temples here.
there are no metaphors of devastated womanhood.
you shrug on practicality like a winter coat you only wear a couple of times a year.
you think ok. you think now what. you think you can’t unrape your body.

11. you can’t unrape your body but you can have a panic attack
in a dingy bathroom stall you can throw up everything in your stomach
you can tear out bits of your hair you can throw away the underwear
he took off you last night when you were passed out drunk in his hotel room
you can avoid your own reflection and scrub your hands until your knuckles
are the kind of sore that makes sense.

12. you can’t unrape your body but you can poke at the holes in your memory
of last night you can try to remember if there was a condom in the trashcan
this morning, even if you know you didn’t think to look when you left
you can get tested for stds when you get back home
you can approach your aftermath clinically and systematically.

13. you can’t unrape your body but you can figure out
how to live in it again. how to live with it. last night.
you don’t have a choice.

14. that’s the kicker. you still don’t have
a choice.
yesterday i walked past the diner where we fell in love,
and i thought i saw the waitress wave at me as i went
by and i realized that the most terrible thing
in the whole world would be you rereading all those text messages
i sent you when i was stupid in love. those weren’t meant for you, okay,
those were for the boy who split his milkshake with me and
held my hand through an entire season of Friends and
sat with me in silence on dirty rooftops while we smoked stolen cigarettes.

look, i didn’t even mean to call the first time, but i was
drunk and high and cold and my old favorite song
came on the radio and i remembered how much you used to hate it
and my chest got so tight thinking about all the ways
we wouldn’t recognize each other anymore and i felt like i wouldn’t
ever be able to breathe easy again until i knew if your
favorite color was still purple. if it is,
don’t tell me. i think knowing that there’s
bits of the version of you that i loved mixed in with the you that
i do not know would only make this harder.

and god, it’s so hard already.  all these years later,
and i kiss other boys, missing your mouth;
step out of warm showers still feeling cold,
get into an elevator with someone wearing your cologne
and feel the syllables of your name knocking incessantly against
the backs of my teeth for the rest of the day.
all these years later and i still tell your sister happy birthday every november,
look for the color of your eyes in the face of every stranger i meet,
feel the carpet burn on my knees from you pulling the rug
out from under my feet. we were
so in love and now sometimes i think about the fact that
you probably tell stories about me to new friends
and i feel so violated that it’s hard for me to leave my bed—

i’m sorry. i didn’t call you to make you feel guilt, and i’m not
trying to get you to care about me again, i promise.
i just want to know when you stopped. and why. and if
you have any tips you could pass on, because i’m sick
of avoiding certain songs and shows and cities because they remind me
too much of you.

look, what i’m trying to say is
i heard that you heard that
i was back in town. please, if there’s any
part of the boy from the diner left in the man
you’ve become, don’t come calling.
please. don’t call back.
the third time i call, you pick up and i say
obligatory life update: i moved to london for my third year of college; this will probably turn out to be a good thing if given enough time to work through al the shitty logistics like how it rains a lot here and no one makes me leave my room if i don't want to and my dogs are very far away from me and i won't see them until june. the food is ok. this is an unedited poem i wrote in may or so but i never remembered to post but there are some lines i really like, like 'sometimes i think about the fact that you probably tell stories about me to new friends and i feel so violated it's hard for me to leave my bed' and 'i kiss other boys, missing your mouth, step out of warm showers still feeling cold' and 'i heard that you heard that i was back in town'. rest assured i am only posting this poem because of these lines. i'm vain like that. 
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it’s Christmas, so you sleep with him.
it’s Christmas and your family is thousands of miles away
and you’re lonely and it’s snowing ad he drove you home and
he let you pick the first movie and he picks the second one,
a comedy you’ve never heard of before and when he laughs,
he looks at you to make sure you’re laughing too,
so you sleep with him.

and maybe you always thought you would be in love with the first person
to bruise your body in places only you and the mirror ever see,
maybe you thought he’d be younger; maybe you thought you’d be. maybe
you thought the lights would be on or your underwear would match
or you would feel ready instead of easy. maybe you thought there’d be
flowers and mix-tapes and permission, or that you’d have a better reason
to sleep with someone for the first time than that it’s Christmas
or it’s snowing or you're afraid to say no because then he might leave
and then you'd be alone tonight in your too suffocating apartment, so this,
this is nice because it has to be. this is nice, even if you feel like
you’ve lost control and someone else is calling the shots,
and sure, flowers would have been nice,
sure maybe you always thought—

but eventually, there’s an afterwards. there’s an afterwards
where the tv is shut off and the snow has slowed and
you’re lying awake with your eyes closed, on your side,
facing the wall. there’s an afterwards where you’re wondering
how you’re going to check for blood without letting him know
you’re expecting there to be blood, where you’re wondering how you’re
going to find the confidence to look him in the eyes or ever leave
the room again. eventually, there’s an afterwards, where you’re wondering
when you’ll fall asleep and if you’ll fall asleep alone because
he still hasn’t come back from the bathroom and you can hear him on the phone,
trading “love you”s and “miss you”s with his girlfriend,
and god you should have known—

you’re wondering if he thinks you’re asleep or if he thinks
he closed the door or if he thinks you already knew
and now you’re wondering if you did and now you can’t be sure
because you’re not surprised or hurt more than you were before.
you’re just wondering why you couldn’t be asleep to save you from
having to lie in the dirty sheets and the afterglow, trying to forget
you know, trying to find your clothes, trying to face the fact that every bruise
he left on you tonight was made with another body in mind.

you’re wondering if anyone’s ever been so cruel or so blind, if this
will be the last time you trust someone to lead while you trail behind
if everyone’s first time feels like they’ve been complicit in a crime—

god, god, how are you going to live with yourself this time?
how are you going to live with yourself this time?

so in the afterwards, when you’re finally in the afterwards,
you’re thinking that you’re never going to let anyone know
what you did on the Christmas you were nineteen and it snowed.
you’re going to put on your clothes and shake off his touch
and go to sleep and tell him in the morning that
you didn’t like his movie as much as you liked your own
and he better get going, he better not forget his phone.
you’re going to put new sheets on the bed and take a shower.
you’re going to pretend you don’t like mix-tapes. you’re going to pretend
you never expected flowers. you don’t even like flowers;
they mean too many things. you’ve never gotten them.
you’ve never gotten why.
mistletoe
he told me i'd never see him again just the other day, so i wrote this poem because after all of that, i was kind of sad anyways. emotions are harder to wrangle than cats are.

(after writing a ton of poems where i pretend i've had sex before, this is my honest account of the way i lost my virginity to a guy who had a sheet taped over his window because he couldn't afford curtains)
(i still don't write poetry like i used to and every time i remember that i just get a little more sad)
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on the day we are supposed to meet,
i will be too sad to get out of bed.
destiny will knock insistently on my door, will
stick its head through the opening and call my name,
softly and then louder when i do not respond.
it will pick its way through the chaos of
my bedroom, over shoes and socks and sweaters
i haven’t worn in a week and shake my shoulder.

i will close my eyes and roll over.
i will have eaten too much the day before. i will have not
eaten at all the day before. i will feel like my hands
are only good for dropping second chances on the floor next to
dirty underwear and last week’s failed midterm and half full cups of
cold tea. you will

not love me.
or you will and it will fracture anyway. you will
and it will start out soft and beautiful, and even if
i will not like the way you load the dishwasher, even if you will
not understand why i never let you see me without makeup,
even if we will sleep back to back some nights and none of our friends will
get along—even then, you will hold my ankle like an anchor
while we watch tv. when i leave enough lipstick stains on the same coffee mug,
we will both start calling it mine. when i leave enough clothes
at your place, you will give me my own drawer. then a shelf. then a key.

but you will not learn the words to my favorite songs,
and i will not ask you to. the newspaper will say our
zodiac signs do not match and we will pretend we didn’t see,
because sometimes you have to just pretend you didn’t see,
but we won’t forget. eventually, something will break that’s broken before,
but this time we will be too tired to fix it. there will be no more stars, wrong or not,

and i will go back to my room alone and try to fit into the same
familiar dips in the same bed, but my body will be different
and tea will not taste the same and i will always have to remember
that i held something as soft and beautiful as your hand in mine,
and i let it go.

so when destiny comes calling the day we are supposed to meet,
i will pretend to go back to sleep.
and across town, you will be waiting in line at a coffee shop,
or checking your ticket for your train, or walking your
dog in the park, and destiny
will tap you on the shoulder and give you my excuses.
you will have worn your best shirt.
i’m sorry. i promise i would not have been able
to look away.
kairos
(n). Greek: a propitious moment for decision or action; not just "setting" or time, but specifically the exact right time to make a decision or carry out an action.

trust me. no one's more surprised to see me here than i am surprised to see me here. writing. it's been a rough, long year.
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well, more like this week. and like, i'm scraping the bottom of the barrel on songs to listen to for exam studying and just for driving and things!!! please please please give me a couple of your favorite songs i really wanna talk music with someone!!! i'm like getting desperate now. support your local poet pls!!! i'll even like clap back with one of my fave songs or something :< pls thanks i love you so much

deviantID

MisfitableGrae's Profile Picture
MisfitableGrae
Grae Mattern
Artist | Literature
United States
wow do i vacillate between taking myself too seriously and not taking myself seriously at all. i'm from the south of USA, moving to the northwest of USA asap. the only pictures i like of me are profiles in bad lighting so u can only see half my face, apparently. i periodically submit poems. it might just, you know, take a little while, but apparently i'm always coming back. i'm eighteen now, graduating high school in a couple of months. um. i appreciate all of you guys so much i could never tell you enough.

lovelovelove
gm
Interests

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:iconsandwichprotector:
SandwichProtector Featured By Owner 1 day ago  Student Digital Artist
from one poet to another I have to say that out of all the poems I've ever read here or anywhere yours are the most compelling and profound. i cried reading them and that usually never happens. your writing is so raw and so beautiful and I can feel everything through your work. It's unbelievably powerful . Please never stop
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:iconadrolyn:
Adrolyn Featured By Owner Jan 27, 2018  Hobbyist Digital Artist
Have a nice birthday :party: :cake: :party:  =)
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:icona-nothing-girl:
a-nothing-girl Featured By Owner Jan 27, 2018  Hobbyist General Artist
Happy Birthday! I hope you have a lovely day. :heart:
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:iconsugary-stardust:
Sugary-Stardust Featured By Owner Jan 27, 2018
Happy birthday, Grae. I hope it's enjoyable. :)
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:iconautumnwriting302:
AutumnWriting302 Featured By Owner Jul 4, 2017  Hobbyist Traditional Artist
I read your "Mili" poem just now and I actually found it very relatable and it really spoke to me in an odd way even though I don't know Mili personally. I a had/have a friend that means everything to me and if I went too long without talking to her I just couldn't be happy. It's funny how before meeting them we exist on our own but afterwards they become an essential part of our existence like water or oxygen. She moved two years ago not long after we became really good friends and I didn't know what to do with myself anymore. I didn't know how I could keep functioning without her there. I think you can identify with me that when it comes to losing someone it changes you in a way that is unpredictable and painful. Sometimes it feels like death or a break-up even if it was just a move. It's because they make us so happy and we get used to feeling good and exited for life so that when they get pried from our lives it comes crashing down like thunder.
I don't know, maybe you can't relate to this but I was just inspired by your poem and I thank you for sharing the precious memories and Mili with the DeviantArt world. Thank you.
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:iconithaswhatitisnt:
ithaswhatitisnt Featured By Owner Jan 27, 2017  Hobbyist Writer
happy birthday! :tighthug: :heart: :iconrainbowcakeplz: i hope you're having a wonderful day! :happybounce: 
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:iconlarathain:
Larathain Featured By Owner Jan 27, 2017
Happy birthday! May it be a day of perfect weather and joyful bliss! One you'll enjoy to often offer reminisce.
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:iconoviedomedina:
oviedomedina Featured By Owner Jan 27, 2017
Happy birthday to you :)
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:icondickywebster:
Dickywebster Featured By Owner Jan 27, 2017
Happy birthday :)
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:iconpatchworklynx:
PatchworkLynx Featured By Owner Jan 27, 2017   Writer
Happy birthday!!! <3
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