yourotherleft's avatar
mae g. saazlow.
52 Watchers10K Page Views109 Deviations
a collection of mornings, ii
v. we backtrack where we should not, turning in a too-small bed to the freezing glare of ten am. uptown and downtown again. this is not a cure. vi. i say i am sorry and he says don't be. we creep back towards consciousness and i send him home in a flood of light and spring air. i wash my sheets of my indiscretion, his infidelity. so much for tacit understanding. vii. he whispers, turn your back from the dawn, our friends don't have curtains. i grind sugar into my teeth and think of him when i taste cigarettes. blondes are all sweetness. viii. alone, languorous.
a change of scenery, perhaps
It was after a year in the desert. Standing stranded on the tarmac I would have publicly imploded for a place to put my head and sleep just long enough for the dirt under my fingernails to turn to diamonds. I would have abandoned my image for a sleeve down which to cough up my lungs and never breathe that dry air again. Instead I found myself in a native's Jeep, spiraling up hills until that neon tourist trap of a city melted into mist-heavy rainforest. I abandoned the modern age for an ancient one in which the thirsty dip their hands into a stream and drink without fear. If the ancients feared liars, I was the enemy. In all my contempt for
sketch of a boy i know
It was that angled jaw and perfect symmetry that caught my eye from across the room. I could have stripped that boy down to his skeleton and still have found him beautiful. He had the sort of intellect that could find Lafayette Street on a map of Pangaea, that knows what Manhattan looked like before the advent of modern architecture. He was from the desert and I dreamt sand in his rough cheeks and dark curls. He held my waist as we slipped east down Ninth Street. Our curves locked together; his hips complimented mine.
a collection of mornings, 2005
i. i wake to a foreign floor, having slept off a year of near-misses. he is long gone, still sleeping through more egregious sins. he does not remember three-two-one and his lips on mine. all the sweeter. ii. we lie awake in the sunrise, watching snow drift past the window and settle on the fire escape. he says nothing. i say nothing. in two hours i will be gone. he asks if i take my coffee black. of course. iii. alone in my bed i am piecing together the evening's failures. there is a day to face. iv. the loveliest morning i have ever seen. i let myself slowly into the world. the words from my mouth circle back and i can invent the t
calendars and the kids
she pushed a nail into the drywall and hung her calendar, a perfect glassy grid that now sweats off the long months past from the space between the window and the refrigerator. with the first threads of snow crawling out from their clouds i am opening the photo albums and she is asking why. and every glossed face is another expired summer sun and that rigid skyline whispers back in slow and careful reminders: this one is the reason i don't wear socks, this one is why every morning i slip a watch around my skinny wrist, and why i cross streets without looking. and she doesn't want to hear and so our city is sile
no mirrors were harmed
it is later than it looks
right now, darling, right now. the frost is settling on our car windows and on the scratched plastic paneling that closes each of us into those little hollow shuttles. the cat is darting under the neighbor's suv and its eyes are so so bright. the stoplights aren't blinking yet but stay long enough and we can forget the way they look when they are solid.
untitled: november.
i remember when we hanged our clumsy jackets on the doorknobs, their loose threads screaming from the corners of discarded sleeves. you were the frost on the trimmed grass crunching under my heels and those icy pre-dawns took calculated bites out of your fingers. i kept moving, crawling like mercury through a chthonian dreamlife as the streetlamps stung my retinas. between us we had two hands, two eyes, and three moments of consciousness. i hit  the brights and flashed forward. november loses its way in a suffocating cloud of leftover hurricanes and ash. he half-smiles from one slow inch away
Let's run. We've got three days against the clocks and a full tank of gas. And I've never seen this highway but between the chords you're yelling over the heater that with gloves on, my hands might slip from the wheel and send us sailing, capsized, off the road. I turn up the volume. Because, in the instant between a red light and a green one, I have left you at the curb: another overlooked, overcooked breakfast uneaten, your fingertips twitching manically the same way that use to drive me crazy and send me out of my skin and into yours. And I remember those hands on my waist, those eyes fixated on the cur
See all
The sound of pages turning between past, present, and future tense were the only indication that any life existed within the gray-washed walls of the Aberfoyle Public Library. Of course there were the silverfish, legions of which moved from shelf to shelf devouring the binding that held together the volumes that made up the stacks. Anthony never had the heart to kill them, although he knew they could destroy the library, word by word. Besides, their antennae still twitched after he slapped them with a rolled-up newspaper, and then he couldn't read the newspaper anymore and the twitching made his stomach turn. If a rare visitor to the library
remembering to forget you
When I was younger, this was the best feeling I could imagine. I'd spend months deciding just what to pack for each and every day and making sure the flashlight had batteries and drawing maps to the campground where I could spend a whole week under the shade of trees with their own stories to tell. I'd count down the days until departure and help load the car, selecting a book for the three-hour journey and music if it was my turn to pick. It was the embodiment of excitement. I don't remember when I lost that feeling, but I remember last summer because it burned more than ever. I watch their car driving up the dirt road to cabin 6a, right ne
hollow underneath
streetlights pour secrets over you and me, radiant beneath trapped halogens. the artificial lights cry artificial tears and we glow… flicker… fade.
salt and mirrors
i left salt in your bed. you left fingerprints on my mirror. (call it even.)
untitled self-portrait
Every time I get on this train, I pick up something new. Tonight for the first time I noticed how when the train pulls into an underground station and you look out the window you can see people standing there, but they're never lit up. So you  see these shapes, and sometimes you'll think it's someone you know for a second but it never is, because then the doors of the train open and they all file in and they're strangers who were just shadows a second ago. I've been one of those shadows. I wonder if anyone ever noticed me.     Sometimes I pretend to look out the window. All you can see is the reflection of the rest of the train car, and I g
what sleep feels like
this is not how sleep should feel: I lie in my indifferent bed, surrounded by the whisper of white cotton sheets, perfect though twisted around each other and around me. They keep me secret and hide me from the light as it grows close, creeping through spaces. I remembered to close the door tonight, but still those pale yellow beams lie awkwardly across my floor. The light from the hall shines relentlessly through the whisper of twilight as it bleeds every secret from leaking, twisted veins. And these twisted thoughts of mine race and close in on themselves. You say there's a secret behind every letter of every lie you ever
sleepwalk pantoum
We leave through the back door. Taking your hand, I step into the alley, where it is cold and the streetlights are off. But nothing seems to matter. Taking your hand, I step into the alley. You are next to me, but nothing seems to matter as night seeps into my veins. You are next to me, saying "everything is all right." As night seeps into my veins, I want to see you all lit up. Saying "everything is all right," we leave through the back door. I want to see you all lit up where it is cold and the streetlights are off.
backwards layback
Every shallow breath explodes as we spin faster than the stars. Honey-scented and warm, the air collides with frosty diamond lips. As we spin faster than the stars, the pearly galaxies of our skin shiver with frosty diamond lips pressed softly against shimmering satin. The pearly galaxies of our skin shiver as you whisper into my shoulder, pressed softly against shimmering satin with sighs soaked in every fluttering heartbeat. As you whisper into my shoulder, Honey-scented and warm, the air collides With sighs soaked in every fluttering heartbeat. Every shallow breath explodes.
Every other night I find my way out of my room and onto your doorstep. Each smooth sidewalk footfall leads me closer and I have learned to recognize your house by the dim glow of streetlamps. Your silhouette is perched coldly on the roof and I let myself in the back door. You don't move as you hear me crawl clumsily out your bedroom window and struggle to move my legs in front of me. You are on your back, watching clouds file past the moon as branches of an oak tree drift wearily across your vision. I wonder if you are thinking anything as I curl up next to your shoulders and fall into your pattern of breathing. Your lungs fill and empty the
The art of locking doors
&nbspThis morning as I pulled out of my driveway I made a wrong turn. All right, that's mostly a lie. It wasn't so much this morning as 3:15 am, and not so much a wrong turn as I just decided to leave. I turned off the lights and I locked the door and I left. I can't stand that feeling halfway down the road of not remembering whether or not I turned off the lights. That, and not taking the key out of the door. I used to do that a lot when I was a kid, but not so much anymore since I started driving. Then I get out to the car and realize I don't have the keys, and then I'm pretty much lucky if I left them in the door and not inside. I have one
addressing her past, today.
- addressing her past, today. already, the flowing water reminded her of storm scattered skies and bouts of sadness; while her head hung motionless above a white sink basin and leaking faucet. -
love poem- number 6
Our kisses were always more beautiful than the ones pinned on your wall. But they could never be therre to watch you sleep So you dont know which one is real: Static permanence Arms painted around eachother Forever there in gold leaf or A dissapearing and reappearing act of passion Complete with mystery and mirrors: It's emcee, calender dates and flight numbers step right up. step right up Until you can't tell you're alone or claustraphobic when you look in the mirror. Until soon, with every kiss and every inch of bare skin you'll wonder, havent you had this dream before?
all heroes gone
Explosive Passion
I crave to breathe searing fire, that it might rip my lungs. I want to live             for more                   than stars. I want to bleed quick                                 silver I-want-to-throw-out-all-my-passioninonemurderousoutburst, hurling shrapnel through car doors with a deafening screech. Devastating city blocks with awe. I want to squeeze out              every last tear of gasoline. I want to breath sparks,              I'll never wear eye brows!    (I defiantly cry) All this,      so  that others      might say:                      I lived.
Our meeting
Our meeting Where the moon eats the night, And our worlds collide, under twilight sky. How Euphoria fakes it, My mirrors crash, and karma blesses. Why the stars wink at me, And  the roses cease to fade. When never sings forever, And glass births the sands…


5th ave, 11am _ 2.0
thursday morning, july. it was storming. four blocks down fifth avenue and two more back to 86th street and we stumbled back to brooklyn with pants plastered to thighs. after that we made plans to plant flowers on the graves of our heroes and priests, to never have empty mailboxes. i bought this umbrella— it was five dollars, automatic, black. every time it opens on its own i remember— a postcard from russia, some wet cigarettes, a song in my head, an empty mailbox. tuesday afternoon, october. it is storming. eight blocks to the station, sloshing down the sidewalks with tiny floods splashing at ankles. that umbrella sprung open half an h
United States
Deviant for 16 years
Llama: Llamas are awesome! (4)
silent kid don't lose your graceful tongue.
blondes make my heart beat extrafast and they take twice as long to get out of my system. i would be lying if i said i didn't know why. i have a dangerously pressing desire to tell an unfortunate amount of secrets.
young and dumb.
rosalind: what are you going to do? amory: can't say -- run for president, write -- rosalind: greenwich village? amory: good heavens, no -- i said write -- not drink. --f. scott fitzgerald, this side of paradise i seem to have ruined my art student. i shall have to procure another. and how convenient, off to the city sunday after work. oh yes.
baby doll.
if i learned anything in physics this year it is that i don't know a damn thing about why one thing is attracted to another. and i hope i never do, because i like surprises. "i take you as a star and a trap, as a stone to tip the scales, as a judge that is blindfolded, as a hole to fall into, as a path to walk, as a cross and an arrow." --henry miller, tropic of capricorn. goodnight to all the ships at sea.


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theaphroditeeffect's avatar
Your writing makes me ache for things that haven't ever happened.

I am envious.
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Pixil8ed's avatar
Got a pretty nice gallery here.
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railroadearth6's avatar
isn't it lame that one of the best writers to ever grace the pages of deviantart has abandoned us all without even being banned or anything?

isn't it?
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gurlgoinghost's avatar
brAAAAAAIIIIIIIIIIinnnnnsss!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! :zombie:

You were bitten by a zombie.... well.... there aren't any rules when you're undead...... just bite as many people as you can okay.......:D
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