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Camila on a KeychainYou turned beautiful when you left us
Mila, the dreamer to
Cami, the drunk
The drop-dead gorgeous girl who made out with a boy for 3 hours straight
on a couch at a party
You used to be distracted by the birds outside
Now, by the boys at your side
Have you forgotten about us in your midnight-paradise?
I certainly haven’t
Everytime I unlock the car
I see the Sorting Hat
a gift from the “number one Harry Potter fan”
as you used to call yourself
the quiet reader who hid behind her glasses
who called me her daughter from the future
(when family wasn’t good enough)
Everytime I close another door
I see a whistle
wooden, hand painted, and hand carved
the whispers of a culture, your culture
the one that fades from your memory a little more every day
a proud citizen who was held up high by her language
as beautiful as you
I’m sure there’s a little Mila left in you, Cami
But take off those stupid hipster glasses and go back to your blue ones
A Sign of the UnverseHe said,
“I want to curl the milky way around our shoulders
the way you curl your hair”
you said it was just a matter of time
before it became straight again
he laughed, took your hand, and pulled you into a crowd of strangers
strangers who, after some time, became your friends
But people laughed at the constellations in your eyes
and shined distorted mirrors in your face
disfiguring the starry night
they smudged the still-wet paint turned sepia through their lenses
He wanted to fold it up and lock it in a trunk
pierce moth-eaten holes through the swirly stars
he had forgotten how to paint canvassed love stories
and how to define a compromise without a stencil
“it’s a sign of the universe,” he said
and you were silent
because you were only one of the muses on the list
But in an Unverse, far away
you turned on the radio and dismembered the melodies
that had kept you together for so long
you stripped the lyrics like s
Golden Ink and Going BackI thought I was in love with that four-year old red-haired boy
Shining in a silver knight costume with a black dragon sewn on
Because I was in the pink Sleeping Beauty Dress
I was a good Belle, too
(Back when I hadn't picked up a book
Except for the blue one with the golden pages
Brimming with witches and fairies and magic)
I wanted to be a princess, back then
They were the ones who always found love, at the end
I wanted to be Wendy, too
Because she wore a blue nightgown and learned to fly
Now, I'd rather be Peter Pan, honestly
Because he managed to swerve this whole ordeal of growing up
(And maybe a little because of the flying)
Now, I just want to go back
Back when the only kissing I thought about
Was in The Princess and the Frog
And the only houses I had to be weary of
Were houses made of candy
Back when the only disappointment
Was when my parents were too tired to read me a bedtime story
Or when I found out that the real Little Mermaid
Dies by Hans Christian Andersen's hand
Chew on Words Instead of GumI bite my nails because I'm swallowing the words my fingers haven't yet typed, trying to make sense of them in my stomach before they reach the page. My fingers are typewriter keys, but I want them between my teeth so I can stop saying the wrong thing and speak like a writer, instead.
She Only Blames the Windthe first year I didn't say a word to her
she was so smart
and I felt insignificant next to her
the second year she said hi
sometimes, I'd even say hi back
and when the conversation expanded
she told me
that she had been afraid of me that first year
a "not-really-sort-of-crush-on-me" scared
and I laughed because that's how I felt too
because she likes to read books to read books
and not just to feel smart
and she likes to laugh to laugh
and not just to attract attention
she doesn't have to work hard
to get what she wants
she just has to wait
patience: a virtue I will never have
maybe she bought those books whose authors had carried her name
because she wanted her name to appear on books someday
I hope it does
because she likes to write to write
and not to show others
it's a selfless art
to be an anonymous artist
I wish I could scratch my name from those stories
as she used to like to do
but I like to remain unknown to make believe I'm a better pers
Two AngelsTwo angels anchored to the wint’ry floor
Alone at last; sweet ev'rythings drift nigh
Straight-jacket wings, down fingers I adore
My feathers ruffled, longing so to fly
But whisp’ring angel, why won’t you take flight?
Snow curtain lifts; betrays his shackled feet
The weather dips, you won’t survive the night
In such ferocious wind and lack of heat
He hugs the fence, his fingers brush my cheek
Refusing tears won’t stop my being drowned
He knows goodbyes were never meant to speak
I bite and break the chain that leaves him bound
Two fallen angels steal the form of geese
But none confined the other can’t release
WonderlandWe had been sitting on a tennis court the first time she told me about the voices. We had been supposed to be chasing after a little green ball as part of the phenomenon called Gym class, but we had quickly given up, discovering our extraordinary inability in playing the sport—well, at least. I think we had been talking about Alice in Wonderland. It’s funny how you always remember the most insignificant details, like you want to pull them into focus and ignore the big picture.
We had been near a large group of girls when her head had twitched, and she had turned around, apparently looking for something.
“Someone’s calling my name,” she had muttered under her breath. Nobody but me could have heard her.
“There’s nothing there,” I had said, trying to meet her eyes, which had been fixed on the parking lot behind the school. I had watched for a flicker of movement, but other than a small squirrel, it had been empty.
We laughed ab
ThomasPeople got tired of hearing me talk about Thomas because he had blue eyes and dark hair and could read Shakespeare without stuttering
I told everyone he was arrogant and aggravating when he was really just shy
But I liked him because his girlfriend broke up with him over facebook even though he put his arm around her and held her hand in the halls
I didn’t like him because he made out with that girl at that party even though he didn’t have any feelings for her (although she didn’t have feelings for him either)
But God, he was beautiful
He spoke like the president and wrote like the poet
I asked him if he hated me once when we were supposed to be talking about Impressionism and he didn’t say anything but gave me this long strange look like there was no straightforward answer to that question
I guess it was true for me too because I didn’t hate him and didn’t like him but I enjoyed watching him stand awkwardly next to me as he struggled to think of som
you are my regretlife lessons i could have done without, or why living hurts like hell.
i. friends will hurt you.
they will sharpen their knives
on every smile you share,
and the hand that you thought was
there to support you was actually
just searching for your weak point.
ii. old lovers will haunt you forever.
they are chained to your heart
like a suicide is chained to her rock
and both will pull you to the bottom.
knowing how to swim won't help.
i don't think anything will.
iii. an addict will always be one.
just because you've stopped doesn't mean
you don't want it, and you better keep
away from sharp objects.
just because the razors are there
when no one else is doesn't make it right.
iv. nights are the hardest.
when the darkness outside your eyes
mirrors the one you've been feeling,
maybe it's time to turn on the light.
stop hugging the pillow. stop crying.
no one will come to comfort you. do it yourself.
v. starving won't make you pretty.
even if your body is e
an apology letter to my body.i am sorry,
i treated you like disposable napkins. like cheap china, or a rug feet have worn the 'welcome' off of. for treating you like fast food in a landfill and for letting others treat you that way too.
most days i can't look at you in mirrors,
when i should be writing you love letters .
i have deprived you,
i have scarred your passages and eroded your halls.
i have let your sacred places be defiled.
you are a country i have never learned to call home,
a language no one has ever spoken.
i made you into a map i told everyone not to read,
planted railroad tracks like break crumbs, like my flesh was an industrial revolution i sometimes follow with my fingertips.
for the days my stomach became a ghost town,
my mouth a forgotten portal.
for the days spent with two fingers down my throat
like the trigger of a gun reversing the cycle of food.
i'm sorry for the nights i didn't sleep
and the days ballet became punishment.
for the days every muscle felt a
SacredI want your breath in mine
Your heartbeats like the most beautiful bass I've ever danced to
Your laugh like my favorite song
And my name spilling from your tongue in a gasping prayer
Y(our) arms, legs, fingers twining like overgrown ivy, clinging to my crumbling walls
I want this to be the best disaster to ever happen
in the twin bed that is too small for us,
but much too empty for me.
I want to do the most unholy things
(although isn't this as sacred as you can get?)
I want to pin you down
Take you in
With your eyes and your hands and your grin
And, damn, your skin skin skin.
we're dust in the light.once i knocked on the door to your heart
and it opened for me gently, silently. i
stepped in and took a seat by the throbbing
wall but there was no light and i couldn't
see anything. so i took bloodied lines from my
arm and rearranged them into a little window
that i set by the corner of my eye just to let a
little glow in.
but even with the light taken from my arm, it's
still impossible for me to see anything but dark,
red walls. i had entered the hollowness of your
heart just to catch a glimpse of you, but you're not
why we pity angelsto him;
you are afraid of phonecalls. you
are afraid of your own voice, and
opening your ribcage to let
your heart come live on your sleeve.
you are afraid of living without caffeine
or alcohol, whatever the day calls for;
you are afraid of being real
without laughing afterwards, becoming
everything you worked so hard to get
away from, acknowledging all
that you still are. know this:
I am afraid of loud noises.
I am afraid of honesty and drowning,
people I don’t know and words
I won’t say. I am afraid
of growing old and living alone and
you not accepting me. I am afraid
of myself. In that, we are the same.
I have the compulsion to grab you
and cup you to me like you are some
half-alive bird, like that sound
as the lazy sun paints you a portrait is
your hummingbird heart and not my own
shallow breaths. in the beginning,
you were my peace of mind. you traced
the contours of my being with a scalpel
and held me up, a shadow puppet,
as the darkest, blackest figures I gav
Facebook Friends: Chaptor 2Elise cried herself to sleep that night, in a state of shame and fear. She was afraid that her parents would no longer treat her the same way. That was a valid fear, because of how the responded. Her younger sister was concerned rather than disgusted. She feared for her sister's soul. That morning Elise felt disgusted with herself. No one spoke kindly or gently to her, they all sort of ignored her. Her parents were ashamed, but rather than directly attacking her, they quarreled amongst themselves. It was as if they blamed each other for their daughters sexuality. After eating breakfast, she and her sister went to school. On the way to her high school she sat in the back of the bus to avoid anyone who wanted to mistreat her. She could trust no one, because almost everyone knew what she was.
She made the biggest mistake of her life telling people about this. When the bus made it's way to her school, the real teasing began. All of it was from people she knew, they all had something terrib
sloppy love-poem hammeredwell I could be
but there is a
I am just intoxicated
I'm always getting drunk
on things that
metaphorically sloshed on
the snow, the rain,
frank sinatra songs
I got smashed on a swing-set
stabbing the sky
screaming into the
the way you believe
you can fly
for an infinite split-second
that night it was you
hits harder than an
harder than a
fifth of vodka
Your Eyes.They say the eyes are a window to one's soul.
How lucky I was to discover these windows, so long unopened,
shut tightly and lacking trust, faith, truth and love.
What a pleasing adventure to pry those windows open
only to see an even greater beauty past the sullied glass.
Such overwhelming emotion that had been waiting to escape.
Such love merely resting until everything fell into place.
Such meek kindness and sweet, tentative affection.
Who am I to be the recipient of such wonders?
The content companion of one so lovely, as inwardly as out.
Oh, if only the glass were a mirror,
reflecting back in a bid for triumphant realization;
a vow to not leave until this vain hope is achieved;
a promise to illustrate what magnificence lies within.
You, darling, are so beautiful.
I will love you still.Tomorrow,
provided that when morning rolls around
the dulcet sky is not hewn and falling
like calamity around my neck,
and the ground is not rent with grief
or torn asunder with greed,
and the ocean has not swallowed me up
and left me hidden within her tides,
tomorrow I will love you still.
When the sudden sun sneaks
like a thief across the horizon
and steals your face from my fitful slumber,
I will stretch and remember Summer days
and the sweet aroma of your smile.
If deep within the mountain-dark night
my demons have encamped around me
and drawn pictures of tragedy in my mind's eye,
I will think of the softness of your hands,
the trusting heaviness of your whispered secrets.
I have made myself a liar.
Even if I woke with a millstone tied around my neck,
and the ground opened up a chasm to swallow me,
and if the sea rose up around me,
then I would sing your saltwater praises.
I will love you still.
Correct Structure in Love StoriesPrologue
sure, I noticed you
the long-haired boy playing video games
in a silent crowd
but I had other problems at the time
problems like getting him to notice me
and what my friends
and my enemies
so our paths didn’t cross for three years
this time, I really saw you
your hair was short and your eyes shone dangerously
but they weren’t shooting stars, more like
meteors crashing toward me
but it wasn’t like you think;
you were lazy and uncaring
(about all the right things)
and I still had some problems
like waking up on a day to day basis
and learning how to respond to puckered lips
so our paths followed each other side by side
but they never met
then, there was the complication
the mistake, my mistake
because I fell in love
with the meteors and the uncare
and the way you looked at life
you looked at it in the face and laughed
and I so wanted to stop crying and start laughing
all he ever made me do was an unsure smile
and maybe I wanted more
IronmanHear me read it
My friends used to call William "Ironman" because the first time we kissed he got a nosebleed and the taste of his blood haunted me for a long time after it. We'd only been twelve years old and apparently the anxiety spiked his blood pressure to the point of combustion... I remember that when we were forced to take sex ed a few years later we were divided into separate classes for boys and girls, in case a diagram of an ovary was too risqué and we became animalistic and started clawing at each other in our seats, but nonetheless when our teacher Ms Jacobs had explained to us what an erection was in my mind all I could picture was the blood rushing to his nose and then the slash of cranberry across my blouse.
With the idea planted in his mind it didn't take long for William's hands to start wandering, but the image persisted. Every time I thought about just letting it happen I wondered what would happen if he got too excite
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scheinbar is a much-loved and well-known deviant. Just one look at her gallery, filled with enchanting photography, will have you mesmerized. A deviant for over 7 years, Christiane can always be found posting inspirational features as well as regularly commenting on other deviations and encouraging and empowering her fellow deviants. We are inspired and insist that you too stop by and congratulate ... Read More