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Literature
This Is How You Will Hurt
This is how you will hurt.
It will be a sunny day and you are still in your room, your curtains drawn to keep the light out, your body shaking under a blanket that just won’t warm you up, but then again, you haven’t felt warm since the day it happened. It is like he took every bit of warmth from your soul, and the only way you will ever feel warm again is if the entire sun grew inside of you.
Your mother is knocking on the door. You pretend you don’t hear her. Your greatest deception since it happened is trying so hard to be normal, and today you do not have the energy for it.
Today, you are going to stare into the darkest corner of your room and wonder why the darkness doesn’t do you a favour and swallow you whole.

This is how you will bleed.
You will only leave your house when the sky is filled with clouds and it is raining. You do not feel the need for warmth anymore. The only thing you feel is numb, your mind doing its bare minimum to hold itself tog
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:iconuntamedunwanted:UntamedUnwanted 40 14
Literature
Why The Sun Rises And Sets: A Myth
The way I grieve for you is not loud.
It is not a cry in the dark,
a wail to those who love me,
a breakdown made of tears and apologies
and ‘why is this happening to me’s.
Instead, my grief is a silent killer.
It suffocates me in the night.
I feel it poison my lungs
every time I draw in breath.
I feel it wrap its cold dark hands
around my barely beating heart,
squeeze until it needs to gasp to restart
and yet it does not speak.
My grief is silent,
so others think it doesn’t exist.
They look at the unbreakable mask I wear
on my face without realising my insides scream.
They wonder if I ever loved you
the way you needed.
Sometimes they think I am
a heartless thing that never loved you at all.
They think I never deserved you
and refuse to understand the truth of the way I grieve.
They refuse to look at me, the same way Icarus’ father
refused to look at the sun ever again because
a part of him blamed Apollo for never understanding
that Icarus loved him, that he let
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:iconuntamedunwanted:UntamedUnwanted 39 3
Little Red Riding Hood And The Impending Doom by UntamedUnwanted Little Red Riding Hood And The Impending Doom :iconuntamedunwanted:UntamedUnwanted 89 6 Peter Pan and Gang by UntamedUnwanted Peter Pan and Gang :iconuntamedunwanted:UntamedUnwanted 117 4
Literature
The Decay
i.
We found each other like hope
on the coldest, darkest day of January.
You took my hands, eyes soft like the clouds
before rain and promised me a whole life
that was not yours to give.
No one had taught you
about borrowed forevers.
No one had taught me about people
like you who looked like homes
but were quicksand instead.
ii.
This is how we ended:
I stopped talking
but you didn’t notice
because you stopped listening
long ago.
iii.
People fall in such deep, dark love
with each other that they forget
that love is a perishable thing.
They hold on long past the love growing bad
until one of them finally catches scent
of the decay
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:iconuntamedunwanted:UntamedUnwanted 46 6
Literature
Gods and Mortals
We loved like Hera and Zeus.
Tricking each other into thinking
the other would better us, cure us
and that ours was a love
which would last so long
that we could take each other,
our bodies and souls for granted.
An endless chasm had opened
between us before we realised
we had convinced each other
our blood ran immortal ichor
Yet there wasn’t
a drop of it between us
This is what a borrowed forever
looks like; the person you love most
falling into a chasm you both created
and you are too far to save them.
In the end
there were no Gods
to save us.
We had killed them all.
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:iconuntamedunwanted:UntamedUnwanted 38 9
Literature
12 Reasons You Are Nothing Like Your Hero Hercules
1.
You were so torrentially toxic to me
I had to slice my own veins to get you out.
2.
There was more chaos in the way you loved me
than there was in the winding weather storm
that broke every window in the house we called home,
you turned that home into a house.
3.
You claimed momentary insanity,
like your hero Hercules,
the day you used your fists for the first time,
the same insanity that plagued Hercules
when he slew everyone he loved.
I wonder if there was a storm
where he lived that day too.
4.
Harbinger made of hemlock and heartache,
hurricane made of hurt and heartbreak,
you were Hera’s lesson of harm and habit,
you were impossible to break,
but I too, like you,
have hidden the strength of Hercules
somewhere inside this harbour body
that used to welcome hurricanes.
I too, have always known siren songs
that have bewitched men
with more ancient madness
than you could ever imagine.
I too have spoken words that dripped with cruelty
like a soldiers sword in a battlefield,
I do
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:iconuntamedunwanted:UntamedUnwanted 66 24
Literature
To The Men Who Burnt Witches
There is witchcraft in our blood,
in our bones we carry the magic
that you could not burn away.
You see, fire does not eat fire.
Your mother would have taught you that
if the world hadn’t convinced her
that despite her body being able
to bring life into this world,
she is not a magical thing.
Maybe the witches you burned
were the daughters of something
more holy than you could ever handle.
So you set them alight for being different,
forgetting that even the son of your God
was once condemned for being too pure,
too beautiful, too different for this world.
History devoured your name,
but we have never forgotten
what you did, witch hunter.
You see, fire never forgets.
When you burned the witches
you thought what you did was small.
But the flames gave birth to ideas
and the ideas set alight souls.
For every witch you burned
there are now a thousand witch women
living differently, and standing tall.
And you may have burned some of us,
but you will never destroy us all.
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:iconuntamedunwanted:UntamedUnwanted 298 67
Literature
In Which I Finally Find A Good Man
I tell him, if you love me, you need to stop reading the poems.
I tell him, if you read them, you will find a version of me you hate.
I tell him, if you want a future with me, you will stop reading the poems.
Because the girl in the poems is kerosene dreams
and ink stained scars and whiskey flavoured fury,
and the girl he is in love with is cotton candy soft
and summer dresses and vodka laughter.
I tell him, he can’t have both because he doesn’t want both,
no one wants a girl whose lungs are smoke black rage
even if her heart is made of tissue silk.
Girls who are both, are too volatile, too painful to love.
So I keep her, the ink stained, angry girl
inside a prison of paper and pen.
I feed her memory,
I feed her sadness,
so I can keep the girl he loves alive.
There is witchcraft here,
a kind of witchcraft
every hunted woman practices
when she finds love.
She magicks parts of herself away
to protect the one she loves.
This is why they say
that love is the end of woman,
the w
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:iconuntamedunwanted:UntamedUnwanted 87 39
Literature
Nine Confessions Of A Skinny Girl
1.
The difference between being thin and being skinny
is that when you’re skinny,
everyone is constantly trying to get you to eat.
As if you are deliberately starving yourself.
As if they are soldiers
and you are a war they must win,
food instead of guns in their hands.
2.
Seven years ago, when I first realised
that I couldn’t sleep on my side anymore
because my hipbones cut like knives into my skin,
that I could count every single one of my ribs,
I ate everything I found in the fridge till I threw up,
and my mother assumed I was doing it on purpose.
It took me three sessions of intensive therapy
to convince the therapist that I wasn’t sick
when honestly, I wasn’t sure myself anymore.
3.  
Girls who look in the mirror
and see a collection of bones
and stories and thigh gaps and brittle wrists
are called beautiful in magazines,
so why do I only see hollow eyes and skin
that is just barely stretched over a skeletal frame?
4.
The first time a boy grasped my wr
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:iconuntamedunwanted:UntamedUnwanted 238 164
Literature
The Body in The Water
Folded along the crevices where the river meets sand
lies the body of our love, now it’s edges covered in moss.
It stays there, where the water still sings hymns to the land,
little realizing that you cannot turn holy a decaying corpse.
And I still visit and fold my hands in prayer,
even though seeing what is left of our love
leaves me feeling so alone and scared
undone at the watery seams, cursing every star above.
Some days I return with eyes so red my mother worries
she warns me that the river can never heal what fell apart
but I always return to the alcove of where we are buried.
I am still offering the water my swollen, moon soaked heart.
I am chasing the metaphors of your goodbyes
as I watch the bones of us turn to fossil
hoping against hope to understand as I watch us die,
how you murdered so coldly what once made our lives colossal.
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:iconuntamedunwanted:UntamedUnwanted 41 28
Literature
The Girl Who Was Afraid To Be
She speaks to me fondly
of passions and talents,
of guitars and stars,
with such breathless intensity
then stops short and
apologises
for speaking at all.
All because somewhere in her life,
someone she loved broke her heart
by ignoring
her beautiful words
and telling her to
shut up,
keep it down,
nobody cares.
People aren’t born sad.
We make them that way.
:iconUntamedUnwanted:UntamedUnwanted
:iconuntamedunwanted:UntamedUnwanted 1,767 270
Disney Series: Once Upon a Dream by UntamedUnwanted Disney Series: Once Upon a Dream :iconuntamedunwanted:UntamedUnwanted 299 19 Tiny Bottled Dreams by UntamedUnwanted Tiny Bottled Dreams :iconuntamedunwanted:UntamedUnwanted 584 37 Two Hearts, One Soul by UntamedUnwanted Two Hearts, One Soul :iconuntamedunwanted:UntamedUnwanted 36 4
Literature
A Prayer for the Scar Mapped
i hope you find someone who loves you for your scars.
your scars are the battles you fought
alone, scared, broken at midnight
navigating the map of your lost soul,
wearing nothing but threadbare dreams,
with demons who would not die,
and who could not rest.
and still strong, you fought on.
i pray you find someone who loves you for your scars
your scars will tell the stories your lips cannot.
your scars will reveal secrets your heart cannot.
your scars will create meaning to the little things you do.
so find someone who loves you for your scars.
this is all that I can pray for, for you
and for you,
and for you...
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:iconuntamedunwanted:UntamedUnwanted 325 88

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This is how you will hurt.

It will be a sunny day and you are still in your room, your curtains drawn to keep the light out, your body shaking under a blanket that just won’t warm you up, but then again, you haven’t felt warm since the day it happened. It is like he took every bit of warmth from your soul, and the only way you will ever feel warm again is if the entire sun grew inside of you.

Your mother is knocking on the door. You pretend you don’t hear her. Your greatest deception since it happened is trying so hard to be normal, and today you do not have the energy for it.

Today, you are going to stare into the darkest corner of your room and wonder why the darkness doesn’t do you a favour and swallow you whole.



This is how you will bleed.

You will only leave your house when the sky is filled with clouds and it is raining. You do not feel the need for warmth anymore. The only thing you feel is numb, your mind doing its bare minimum to hold itself together and your body doing its bare minimum to keep your bones from falling apart.
You have become robotic in gestures, fluent in nothing words and social cues.

“Hello.”

“I’m fine, thank you.” “How are you?”

It is only when you walk by his house, that your heart suddenly feels like it’s trying to claw its way outside you, you feel hot and cold at once, your breath quickens and your stomach churns like you are being force fed the universe and you can’t say no — even though you are full. So you throw up, right there on the pavement, so close to his door.

Almost where it happened. But not quite.

▃▅


This is how you will try.

Your parents will take you to a therapist because they are so tired of asking you what’s wrong and you’ve run out of nothings to tell them. You’ve tried and they’ve tried, but the words just turn to ashes every time they try to leave your mouth. They start as fire in the pit of your stomach, but come out in a puff of smoke.

So here you are sitting in front of a person you have never met before, a stranger you need to tell all your secrets to. And for an hour, you just sit there trying to find the words to speak, but when you can’t even talk to your best friend, how do you speak to someone who doesn’t even know how to pronounce your name properly?

You are not you anymore. And you don’t know how to fix this. The worst part is…you don’t even know how to try.

▃▅▇

This is how it will end.

Your parents are tired of trying to get you to speak. So the doctors recommend a place for you to go to. A place where they treat special cases like you.

It will be good. They promise. And when you come back, you will be better than ever – a new person almost. Recovery is a wonderful thing, you will see, when they open your mind up to understand what is wrong with you.

Recovery is a wonderful thing, they reassure you as you are led away to a car that doesn’t belong to your parents, bile rising in your throat, but your body doing what it’s told. You want to say no, you don’t want to go.

But your mouth no longer knows how to speak for your heart, nor your soul. Because to you, recovery is not a wonderful thing.

Recovery is just an eight letter word.

And so is insanity.

“I am fine.” is just three words.

And so is: “He raped me.”
The way I grieve for you is not loud.

It is not a cry in the dark,
a wail to those who love me,
a breakdown made of tears and apologies
and ‘why is this happening to me’s.

Instead, my grief is a silent killer.
It suffocates me in the night.
I feel it poison my lungs
every time I draw in breath.

I feel it wrap its cold dark hands
around my barely beating heart,
squeeze until it needs to gasp to restart
and yet it does not speak.

My grief is silent,
so others think it doesn’t exist.
They look at the unbreakable mask I wear
on my face without realising my insides scream.

They wonder if I ever loved you
the way you needed.
Sometimes they think I am
a heartless thing that never loved you at all.

They think I never deserved you
and refuse to understand the truth of the way I grieve.

They refuse to look at me, the same way Icarus’ father
refused to look at the sun ever again because
a part of him blamed Apollo for never understanding
that Icarus loved him, that he let him plummet and die in the water.

No one ever told him either, that when Icarus fell,
Apollo went insane with grief.

I know, because every night I see the sun God
drown himself in the horizon,
to learn the painful process
of destroying and resurrecting himself

in the myth we naively call Night and Day
that we take for granted as the sun setting and rising

All this so that one day he can defy Olympus’ rule
of never resurrecting a mortal for Icarus,
the only mortal who ever dared to loved him enough
to fly close to him but drowned instead, in the ocean’s deep.

[If he ever learns to resurrect mortals
the way he resurrects himself
Apollo’s favourite sight would always be Icarus rising
the way he does every morning, whole again from the sea.

And my favourite memory seared in my mind by
my aching, ever destroying, never ending grief
the kind of grief that Apollo and I know intimately
will be your sleep warm body softly breathing next to me.]
i.

We found each other like hope
on the coldest, darkest day of January.
You took my hands, eyes soft like the clouds
before rain and promised me a whole life
that was not yours to give.

No one had taught you
about borrowed forevers.
No one had taught me about people
like you who looked like homes
but were quicksand instead.

ii.

This is how we ended:
I stopped talking
but you didn’t notice
because you stopped listening
long ago.

iii.

People fall in such deep, dark love
with each other that they forget
that love is a perishable thing.

They hold on long past the love growing bad
until one of them finally catches scent
of the decay
Hi dear ones. I love you all. I am back. And I hope you are all well and happy. :) <3

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UntamedUnwanted

Artist | Hobbyist | Literature
United Kingdom
I am a twenty nine year old tree who likes to dream about Van Gogh's canvases in real life. I love whole milk, and never get into bed without bed socks. My favourite place is the space under my desk that serves as a fully functional panic room from time to time.

Favourite writer: Oscar Wilde, Neil Gaiman, Germaine Greer.
Favourite poet: Sylvia Plath, William Wordsworth
Society6 Page: society6.com/NikitaGill
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:iconladylincoln:
LadyLincoln Featured By Owner Jun 20, 2018  Hobbyist Writer
Happya2 by Alimera

I hope you have a blessed and happy day, dearheart!

With love,
:heart:
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:iconmeloa789:
meloa789 Featured By Owner Jun 20, 2018
Happy birthday
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:iconirrendernarr42:
irrenderNarr42 Featured By Owner Jun 20, 2018  Hobbyist Writer
Happy Birthday
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:iconcristinaivan:
cristinaivan Featured By Owner Jun 20, 2018  Hobbyist Digital Artist
Happy Birthday beautiful soul ! 
Have a nice day! <3 Heart Heart 
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:iconpennedinwhite:
PennedinWhite Featured By Owner Jun 20, 2018  Hobbyist Writer
Happy Birthday! Thinking of you. :heart:
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:iconjazzminegermany:
JazzmineGermany Featured By Owner Jun 20, 2018  Hobbyist
Happy Birthday!
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:iconloreenacole:
LoreenaCole Featured By Owner Dec 25, 2017  Hobbyist General Artist
Merry Christmas xx
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:iconuntamedunwanted:
UntamedUnwanted Featured By Owner Jan 19, 2018  Hobbyist Writer
Merry Christmas and thank you so much for that perfect and kind gift of a core membership! You're a beautiful human! <3
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:iconhanitasroloru:
HanitasRoloru Featured By Owner Jul 22, 2017  Hobbyist General Artist
You are a genuine literature genius who is very inspirational. I love what you write, keep up the good work. UwU
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