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but sometimes it just
doesn't make sense.
i forget how to start
and pick it up
from the middle
and go back after.
blueshe became my beginning
and she will be my end
i will softly
with that ocean
i will stain my will
the colors of her;
pull the blue from her eyes
rub the pale from her hip
dance my fingertips
across her collar and
waltz her blush til dawn i will
erase lines between our skin;
we are the atlantic in a frame
small doses small dips
but it's never enough
they say if one loves the ocean,
they never really leave it
and empty my lungs she is
an ocean and i have fallen
and i will softly
i quoted youflushed
i'd written it down once while
still you slept:
"under penalty of law"
buried it somewhere between
the springs of our beds
and never thought to look
along the lines of mattress tags
for the pink we pressed
against each other
once upon a time.
but dear god i remember
i was head over heels for
sky eyes with thoughts afloat
pacific eyes and
margarita eyes with
on your tongue, we
used to use the countertops to
balance ourselves after losing
our air to each other's lungs and
now i like to think that there is
where the pink went.
tell me your mattress tag."
and you'd meant it once.
i you we used toi remember an autumn before last
that drank up the august haze and heat
and spit out tree clothes.
they were orange before red
but layers never did you any good;
you were always blind before
so what difference does it make?
we used to draw on them in blood,
make people with smiles who lived
across the world, and we let them
live that way because
that's how we wanted to live, too.
i remember finding one stuck on my window
with a soul and smile in your handwriting,
clutching at the glass
and i thought, oh i thought lovely,
you sent it as you to find home.
but by the time it reached my hand
you declared it out of season
and it writhed and withered,
leaving smudged smiles on my palms but
not one on my face.
cedreki used to dance to the color blue
in my childhood days,
when footprints crawled across the yard
and noseprints stared out of the window
and fingerprints clung to everything
that wasn't my mother's hand.
i devoured my freedom from restraint,
let it in through my pores
and out through high screams and cries-
i'm sure you could hear down the street,
my Indian cry.
we smoked cigarettes together,
got high off the sugar
and rode off for hours
pedal round to pedal
metal magnetized when we didn't even know
what that meant
our faces met the pavement and we
couldn't smile anymore.
those blue days from osborne street
have long since found their ways
into those cracks in my neck and temple
and i'm sure they'll still clutch my bone
when i'm withering away and
dancing with my fingers to the color pale and
telling boys with brown eyes
about how that cowboy from washington
ran away with the girl with face paint
but never got far enough to leave
his mother's hand.
thoughts over dinneri wonder if you can taste
because i'm being swallowed up
by that void behind me and
i'm sure i taste horrible,
or at least very salty.
the light's hung its
patience on the
and trapped tongues;
the fires that shot through our skin(s)
around our knuckles and
but tummy noises
we've left our glasses on the cliffs of
almost leather and almost lathered
and almost hot glued
so dangerously hot glued
and the sun drew sand lines
between our ankles to keep
you love hospitals and
how people gather in one place
to say things they normally
you love the smell of alcohol,
lazy along drag of heels and
fingertips on the stair railings
steel cold and clean.
but you hate waiting rooms
and hallways with chairs across
from rooms occupied and
signs that aren't promising a
teary welcome home.
right now there's a man and
his wife you can guess and
he's holding her hand and they're
both looking at the floor.
and across from them is a door.
you want to say "sorry" or
"i'll hold your hand"
but any sound will crack
the glassy tension budding from
the meters of the floor;
you've your own place.
so you carry on using your head
as a battering ram to
escape from the weight
but before you've gotten out of sight
there's the doctor with his
high head but weary face
and he walks right past you and
behind there are feet hitting the floor
to throw bodies upright
and that goddamn
even you stop with a
hand pinching you
I miss you, and i can't say i'm sorry
because these slender, spider fingers
ache to trace the curved letters of your name tag,
emily. i notice you write everything in caps.
( have i ever told you
how much i enjoy saying your name, -EMILY. )
you are screaming to the world, quietly.
but we, we are mid-morning whispers
over stale, back room coffee,
silent eyes, and window pane love.
these hearts were runaways once;
hitchhikers on a trail to nowhere.
you shared pieces of yourself with me then,
emily, between beats and bathroom stalls.
you were a gargoyle under the heat
of july summer. evenings were our playground;
rose garden beasts lingering in feverish night.
Hemingway Would Hate ThisThe trouble with the Boy was that he didn't have the heart of Shakespeare, the voice of Poe, nor the soul of Wordsworth, nor the knowledge of Rembrandt in his darkest days. He didn't have a trace of Michaelangelo's spirit nor the angst of Carvaggio and this on its own was enough to dissuade him from understanding that technique was far better than solidarity and possession far more ageless than youth.
He didn't have any of this knowledge because his father hadn't had the courage to tell him that he needed all the qualities of these great men, to win over the heart of a woman who had the dreams of Austen, the ideas of Da Vinci and the scent of a high priestess of Venetian origin.
The Girl was all those things and more, and her value, her estimate in the market of souls was higher than most. She was an angel amongst Gods, and He should never have let her go into the world thinking that it was Keats hearted. Because like all women who live their lives story shaped, she was soon broken by
How did you get those scars?And I asked her,
"Do you remember
why I counted tiles-
sat in silence for hours,
wishing on the black holes
in my pockets?"
Stuttering against quiet delusions,
She bit a vintage tongue.
I tried to bury myself alive that night,
just to engrave the taste of rose thorn monsters
between the cracks of my glass skin."
Licking dry lips,
She asked to taste them.
New FaithOf course it would be foolish to assume that the relationship between us is linear:
I touch your skin.
to meet the meaning in your eyes.
Of course it would be foolish to resume the old ways of believing:
There is no pain
that this moment
cannot bend into beauty.
In ThreesI was armed with half a deck of emotions, two thirds of a heart and eyes of a broken mirror that offered no protection to my soul. I wanted to talk about it often and whenever I needed to, the words would tangle in my mouth, come out as a compliment of a shirt, an idea that had no relevance, a conversation about the weather. I was eighteen. I wanted to be stronger, brilliant, bright like a comet in the sky. Instead, I learnt about how beds could be the most loathed places in the world, bathrooms were meant to be soaked in blood...and men with eyes like knives sometimes used them against people they loved.
I was armed with shards of strength, a misplaced sense of determination and the kind of bravery that only the damned can have. Words haunt, especially when all you have to your name is a broken little mind, a need for validation and an honest fear of losing someone you love. I was twenty. I wanted to make sure that the world around me realised I existed, I wanted to shine for my sake,
He is ArtHe is art.
His hands are the right size,
and his smile is perfectly lopsided.
His eyes are dark,
but in the sun they're brighter than you can imagine.
They draw you in.
His abs are defined the right amount.
His arms are long enough to wrap around you,
and hold you.
He is art.
He can make you laugh when you do not want to,
but make you want to so badly.
You come to him when there is no one around,
even when there is.
He lets you borrow his strength and if that's not enough,
he lends more help.
He gives me everything.
He is art.
Two AngelsClouded eyes.
Her innocent anesthesia. Her
Her cut. Her caramel hair,
tumbling down her back. The last
I saw of her as she walked away.
Left me off guard.
A topaz heart rebuilt
by a chance. Her dark flash
wise heartYou told me the story of that tattoo with you and your old lover's names and how your new one would dig her nails deep into the name away until you bled, every chance she could get, angry and jealous because you believed in forever.
'what a shame forever shatters so easily...'
I could see a hint of sadness in your eyes when you talked about her.
thinking back now, it was such a beautiful story that I couldn't appreciate until now, and you will always be one of the wisest, kindest people I have ever interacted with. I hope you are well, old friend.
Maybe I'll see you again soon...
Keep in Touch!
Lilyas has dedicated herself to making our community a brighter place with her vibrant artwork and infectious enthusiasm for interacting with others in our community. It has certainly paid off, as many deviants flock to her page on a daily basis to let her know how much of an inspiration she is. We absolutely agree, and couldn't let all that hard work go without recognition, so it's with great pride that we bestow the Deviousness Award for March 2014, to ... Read More