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autumnmy body thrives on the migration of
tree limbs and human hearts -
a golden fist clenches onto modicum
entrails, thrusting pollen up my throat
and into the air you breathe.
1 + 1 = 2i can't take tests
6 + 8
& i write
69 or 66 or 33 or 89 or 98;
you get the point.
0 ≤ ∞
her + me =
7362 ✖ 300 ÷ 6
2208600 ÷ 6
(i'm ashamed when i
discover that i am
always wrong and
but i'll take my
homophobia, Weare The People
spending our days
stop thinking in verse
and breathing in lies,
because we know that
if you've got a bible in
your back pocket, you can
deep down there's
this place inside of
your chest, where your
heart should be - an
empty void where you
can't see things
as they are;
no cruel poetic
you're 100% healthy
and you know it.
what should be pure
within you is tainted
and you always knew you'd
be perfect with
blue lips and
from oracle bones
triangle eyeson the last day of october
he brought home a pumpkin
and showed me his teeth
(he was so proud of himself)
once i had told him no he exploded,
smashing it on the counter and when
i told him to leave he left and he took
the knife with him
thankfully i found my epi-pen in time
and i didn't die and by the time i woke
up the next day he still wasn't there but
the knife was, along with the seeds
that had bled over the counter.
i called him and told him to come
home (i'm sorry i got mad, dear,
please come back) but his answering
machine didn't talk back and
he didn't return any calls.
on the last day of november i managed
to find an old, dying pumpkin and once
i managed to cut the top off, i stuck my
and my lungs closed like his eyes when
he smiles and my breath got shallow,
the way it used to when he kisses me
i am barely alive,
dragging dirty fingernails
over my arms and drawing blood
before skin turns to
i am blinded by
the letters caught
in my eyes, and
ink slides down
my cheeks and i am
crying for someone
to come along and
breathe the words that
will be carved into my
i am fake and real
and honest and fantasy;
a wax hero put on display.
i will not be your mary-
sue and i cannot save you at
the zenith of your story.
there is no sequel.
i am sorry.
tallest man on earthhe rolls in
to waltz out
and out to
before i have
a chance to
whisper, i miss
naive this is new york, new york
and i'm burning under the
cold coffee is crawling
over the bed-side table;
my fingers have gone
numb at the tips -
arctic fantasies of
crestfallen cyclesyou die, I die. he whispered to her in the darkness. so don't go.
you can't depend on me forever, she replied, moving closer.
I can try.
it's okay. you would've left sooner or later.
I'm here now though.
like you said; temporary.
their fingers brushed together slightly, but she pulled hers back, holding her hands in her lap.
I can't fix you.
on loving a girl who doesn't love herselfYou used to tell her that you’d accept the reminders, the dark shades running down and over the hill of her waist, the shadow of her wrist. Far from unlovable, you said. So far.
Grudgingly, you realized that you could not fix her. She was not a dismantled puzzle just waiting for you; she was her own brand of porcelain, one you didn’t know how to mold back together. She wasn’t breathing for you.
The moments of silence between you led to a longer period, those weeks when you went days without talking – and you didn’t know if you were supposed to be proud of her or cry.
Stargazed at each other’s words until the night came when you learned she wanted you to kiss her scars and make love to them as if they were her self. You laughed without humor and said, "I might as well kiss them with the fucking blade then." She said nothing.
When she discovered that you would love her and her body and her past – but wouldn’t trace the lines on her skin
what thirst will do to yousometimes when i flick my ashes i imagine tiny little pieces of my lungs crumbling into an ebb-flow tide to the floor of my gut. it is not as hard as everyone thinks, you know. not every bottom hit is impenetrable, and when the bathtub creaks an apologetic, porcelain sound (so strange for hard plastic) i can almost feel it collapsing inward, falling out in through the earth.
fidelic whore-- this is appropriation
my sweet synchronicity ,
i have downed your appetite
in a bed of front teeth
(it is morning in perth
midnight in dublin, and the noon
sun has been lost behind
a dress of mothy curtains)
do i taste of
of love making;
do i reek of
the weeds that
the posture of your spine?
you bend over
my lap a curve of guilt
and weep all night.
i collect each knob of your body
like a gift. press it to my mouth.
leap through eternityi will sink my teeth into a supernova
to let the stardust and
slide down my parched throat and
wash over my intestines,
like a pebble
drowning in the sound--
.the cat keeps
leaving dead meat
on my doormat,
a pile of bones,
bloody and raw
he wants me to
know what i'm
walking into, he
wants me to know
just what i am
to the girl with hungry footstepsI'm sending all my words back
to the people who need them--
people who wear scars like
war trophies, like jewelry, like
an identification for those suffering
from the same acceptance of
self-hate. this is to the people
who sleep with one eye open, who
cry when footsteps enter their room
at night; this is to the girls
who love by cutting their hearts
into snowflakes and watching
them melt. I left you behind and
I can't be sorry for that.
you are the type of beautiful
that kindly asks the world
to fuck off. the days we buried
have decomposed, headstones are
snapshots; sanitized breakdowns,
rusty tongues, sighs laced
with fear, I love you, I love
you. saturdays were the best
because we could sleep through
the nightmare. you painted me a
picture of the world with your words
and they made us wash it away
for being transparent.
we were afraid of nothing
but the monsters in our eyelids.
back then, we counted days
like shooting stars; it took 67
to wish myself away. this
is for you, skygazer;
i just really don't care about climate changei am fourteen.
i am fourteen years old and they tell me
to take on the world, to hold the globe
like a precious creature in my palms
and to balance the continents
between my fingers.
i don't want to suck the toxins from
the atmosphere and pollute young
lungs, the exposition of explicit
curriculum drives me crazy.
it may be compulsory but having
it drummed into your ears and weaved
into your innards is not the way that
(i want to live).
i am fourteen years old,
and they tell us that kids are growing up way too fast
in a world that's self destructing by the second,
but ignorance is bliss - weren't they the ones
who taught us so?
Air SexYou saw a gray mouse today
in the form of a girl
pickin’ her way, skittering
trail of alley apples.
On her mannequin’s body
wracked by a smoker's cough,
of newspaper headlines
held fast with twine.
judders from the
between her thighs,
but don't stare too long
see the ink blot of
if she still gets her periods.
An’ if she holds still
her eyes’ll show you
the mania- but she's
studyin' you right back.
An’ the scab-engers of
her arms are
than you can handle,
so don’t be square
just standin' there
playin' air sex
interlopershow me god the way your mother
knew him, show me the mark on
your body where he stopped
you from suicide, where he changed
your winters to summers and
address me by my first name to show
me that your respect for me hasn't
died, letter by letter, buried between
the bow of your hips alongside our
once-strong playground love.
tell me the preacher was lying as he
spoke of our comely desire falling to
the destructive hand of a deity no one
has ever seen, but feels as they speak
in tongues that never matched the ones i
spoke in to finally tell you that
i felt for you.
don't leave me in some drunken tantrum
across state lines, slurring words as
you try to tell me your love for someone
else is vivid and living in you, even in the
parts that have died away, breathing out
alcohol as you use the word "never".
curl into me with intimacy, touching the sadness
out of me, because i always wanted to be
the one you love, not the one you loved.
HomesickI am the river's son,
my arteries flowing turquoise
and turning to rapids
rushing around my frame,
filling me with this sense
of buoyancy, minnows
tickling my sternum.
I am the river's son.
My palms caress each
silty shoreline, every
battered bank and bend,
and these places I know
so well become me
as my fingerprint,
even the bridge above me
inflamed by the afternoon
sun-glow, burning rusty and
the steel blue sky.
I am the river's son;
I bring my home along
like hermit crab,
where I step
I pull water from the earth.
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