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dear apollo.your skin is hot enough to ignite this entire world and yet you sleep curled against my frostbitten shoulder blades. you burn in your slumber and i spend my night beating the sparking, smoldering edges of our cotton sheets. myths written on linen and stone describe you as golden with dawn-skin and honey-eyes, but lover, i know you for the truth. you are the charcoal of where the sun has pressed too close, the passion of the wildfire's wake. you are the olive branches of peace and the violence of the charred leaves. you are staining my forearms with the feral licks of your ink-hair and are painting my sides with the soot of your fingertips.

w
secondhand inspiration.i am more than a girl with dirty hair and burned fingertips.

i am more than the insecurities that pile up and fog my mirror, and more than the cowardice i write about so lovingly on my fractured clavicle. i am not just this freckled skin and i am not these cramping feet that twitch under mahogany desks. i am not the girl that sits in the corner and allows the world to draw a box around me, and i am not the girl to sit and allow the world to thieve my words and plant them in their own private gardens.

i have my poems in a headlock and i am holding them under water until they breathe inspiration again. i am chasing down shadows and demanding
flame of the fear.if you wanted to know the truth, you would know that i am hardly ever truthful.

i am a master of deceit, a fiend of dishonesty. my tongue silver and my teeth poison, and the ugly truth of the matter is that i spend so much time swallowing my own tales that i fear i am rotting with disease from the inside out. i can't stand to look in the mirror because it's looking into the face of my greatest enemy and the reflection is ugly and cracked like the worn sole of the nomad. the truth hurts like the exactness of a blade through dead flesh around a gaping wound. i am a liar and i am lying to myself. i cannot find my pulse and when i can, it's only
bleeding miles, oceans thick_ci speak all these words in one breath. my mind drips- skin falls to pieces and lands in a pair of hands. the rain washes it away and it's gone, but it flickers like lightbulbs. flickers on and off in my stomach, in my head, in my heart. it's a thunderstorm, it's bleeding into waves. i walked down the hallway and kept my hands in my pockets the whole time. i dream inside my dreams. i have dreams in your bedroom that the forests cry. you kiss me until i cry. liquid sadness down my thighs. it's like breathing in space when you're not here.

(my heart is a drum and my hands cannot keep the beat. my heart is a bird that my bones cannot cage. you a
bleeding ink-throats_c.I'm forgetting how to pump these rotting thoughts through my grasping, skeletal fingertips. I'm a well run dry and the only thing left is the bucket at my feet, cracked and aging; blank, broken pages with nothing left to say. And all my body's wishing for is a way to spell the words that will write you back into my arms. Because you're a thousand miles and a million wishes away and I'm starting to believe I've just got no words left to say.

I am bleeding syllables and pulling phrases from between my teeth, but they're broken and empty. I know if I breathe my poisoned sorrow into your mouth, your lips will dry and your flesh will crack and th
yesterday i died.ghosts are burning the edge of my vision.

i can feel the way they crowd and jumble, the way their fingers are pulling sticky fingers against my sanity and dragging me further and further into the rabbit hole of my insecurity. i can see them in the shadows at the base of my eyelids and feel their voices in the spaces between my vertebrae. they call me when i'm awake and they scream when i'm asleep and i claw at my face and i pull at my skin, but they burrow deeper and deeper still.

they quiet and stagnate, yet i can feel them in the dust that my feet unsettle as i walk forward. their faces are persistent and their mouths gaping open with the
strangle me silently.i am sleeping and nameless faces are looming and my bones are breaking to the beat of war drums in the fogging distance. my pulse is racing and bursting at the seams and i am arching up and out and all over the ceiling and splattering on the window. "it's art!" they cry, because art is pain and i am paint running down the walls, the shattered column of my torso twisting on roping cotton sheets. "how beautiful," they sigh with wistful voices for i am destruction, and they envy the magnificence to sacrifice one's self for art, for beauty, for love, but i am a stain they can't wash out and a puzzle they can't complete, and the walls are decaying
love will burn this city.it's the same old fire, the same old burn; i'm building castles from words and watching as the flames swallow mortar and stone. the walls are breached and ascending armies are slipping on my heart as they race up the winding stairs. i am locked in the tower and pushing my head into the pluming smoke clouds just for a chance of clean air. i am quaking with fears and devoured with doubts, my spine is a puzzle i can't figure out and the second i have it straight is the second i'm spread-eagle on the floor once more.

my palms are the source of the wildfires in the western hemisphere and my heart is the spawning ground of all the eastern plagues.
try to know me.if you want to know me, you have to read my words.

you have to let yourself slip into the sometimes boiling water of my ideas and let them blister and scar your skin. you have to touch the angry wounds and understand the serrated edges that placed them there. you see, i am more than syllables and more than vowels, but to understand the cracking of my spine, you have to decipher the noise that it makes on the way down. you have to close your eyes and listen to my soft-throated whine and listen to my blood-vessel-popping scream and understand the howls of joy that spiral up my chest from the shrapnel of my very stomach.

you must take the time
find me in the hidden life.i have this feeling in my bones that some call weakness and other call fire.

it's a driving need and a crippling desire, and it wakes me in the middle of the night with cramping calves and feet running among cotton though they reach nothing but the great beyond of the side of the bed. it's a burning that pushes me into the middle of rainstorms to dance among the cracking weather kissing the earth, and it's a spark lit under the gasoline pooled under my heart. some call me crazy and others call me sane, but if you look for me in the heart of winter, you will often find me curled under the dead oak touching the bark because i like the way life
loosely applied.it is finding yourself in the miles that stretch between yourself and the end of time. it is in the spitting up of blood at three in the morning, spelling out their name and passing out in the gore. it is  in trying to find beauty in the uglies that follow you from shadow to shadow, their claws reaching out to swipe against the curve of your back, the width of your shoulders, the dip near your waist. you are breathing, but the term is loosely applied and it would be more proper to calling it gasping.

you are gasping. you are waking up without air and desperately wishing that you had it. you are waking up and touching the cold bed sheets and
the story told without words.this is the story of a girl who fell in love.

this is the story told in words that do not come gently, but rather as torrents of water bending the windowpanes. this is the story carved from the things that i am made of and pushed into the middle of sunlit rooms so that the world can stare in wonder. this is the beauty spewing from an unbeautiful mouth, the love gushing forward from the split ribs of a body that simply cannot contain anymore. this is not composed of large, sweeping generalizations and observations of the world, but rather is built upon the small whispers of dawn. if you split open the spine of this novel, you will find the ve
singing of beauty.some sing that there is beauty in the breakdown, but i have learned in the heat of your palms that the true beauty is in the rebuilding after the fall. you found me a city burned to the ground and you exhaustively rebuilt all of my fallen skyscrapers. you did not mind the singing and the stinging eyes. you never faltered at the quakes that ran up the base of my spine to the tip of the city limits. you just moved with meticulous, tenacious, loving grace.  you found me a forest cleared on a whim, an ocean polluted with the lies of the selfish, a sky darkened with the ache of a thousand breaks.

you found me ugly, and still, you found
you are my prayer.we are holding hands racing from burning homes.

we are coughing as the walls melt like wax and the floor ignites and we're spitting up smoke in puffs of disbelief and horror. your palms are bleeding crescent moon wedges all over the sweat-slicked car door and i'm curled like an autumn leaf on your lap, my spine cracking like tennis shoes pressing down on fall. we're watching bombs detonate under our bare feet and wincing as the sparks crackle along the dry flesh. we're bleeding sweat, tension racing like split electrical wires in our veins. you call my name and i cry out and birds are dying around us and the ground is splitting open and when
the rationality of love.what keeps us together is what really
should drive us apart
like graphing the incline of
the aches of your heart; like hammerhead sharks
chewing on a pale,
freckled limb; like cutting your
boyfriend's brake lines, then watching him drive off
on naught but a whim;
like slicing up an orange
with the side of a dull, shattered fork; like
rationalizing
an argument in latin
with a stork; like diving in an ocean
just to test your lungs;
like spitting out your teeth and
swallowing tongues; like breaking off your bones
and clenching your jaw;
like freezing off your eyes, and
waiting for the thaw; like bending your thumb
just
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More from =corina90

this was once called love.01.
I painted you in the hues of sunshine and orange flowers, talked to you in words that had long since faded and drew you maps to my heart with animal bones and dried-out-markers.

I knew you’d get lost, but it was still worth a shot.

02.
You burnt your fingers on the stove this morning and I kissed the unburnt ones, apologized with an “I’m sorry but I just can’t love your imperfections this early in the day.”

My kisses never could save you anyways.

03.
I poured your coffee along with your broken promises, took back my dreams from your pocket and buried myself under the past. You gave me a smile but even I cou
we could walk on water.I will find you on the edges of the river,
right between the creases where the moss
grows thick and the water gurgles hymns
so softly that you have to still your pulse
just so that you might hear it.

[Quiet, darling, quiet; open your heart and listen.]

You will find me in the pocket of the ocean’s
darkest wave, curled against the starfish and
seaweed, painting my moon-sand skin with
every color so that I might be as achingly
beautiful as the coral you dream of.

[Pray, darling, pray; open your hands and believe.]

We will find one another in the deepest part
of the deepest lake, pressing kisses together so
that when we bre
castles and hearts.you once told me
  that i was beautiful
     in the way of plastic castles
        and paper hearts.

(it's such a shame that paper tears
and plastic melts, is it not, love?)
unbeautiful.01.
I am so sorry, my dear, but I seem to have
forgotten the way you’ve taught me to pray.
My hands are fumbling and lips are
pressing together but the words are empty
and I just can’t find the grace to make them
as beautiful as you did with your angel-teeth
clicking against that devil-mouth.

02.
You once told me that if you could find a
way to hold on to a wish and fashion it into
reality that it would have my eyes but you
confessed you’ve always loved that Mona Lisa
smile. So I woke up this morning and did my
best to practice, but I am no Mona Lisa, and
to be frank, darling, you are no da Vinci.

03.
There
painting you in desert storms.It’s hard to imagine that I am alone on this flat
land, the desert stretching out around my cotton
dressed form to illustrate the erased point I’ve
been trying to make. I’ve managed to lose my
head, my heart, my air, my sight; I’d try to find
you, but my blind eyes still can’t manage somehow.

(Oh, but I can see enough to know that you still
aren’t here. I know enough to know nothing.)

And as the wind begins to whisper, it’s
so easy to open my arms and close down
my heart, pretend that I am a tumbleweed.
I can lie so well and tell myself that this
breeze is just coming to drag me home.

(If
simplistic love ballad.dawn.
                     I’m running a river of music on your xylophone-ribs and breathing a flute along our hellogoodmorninglover kisses. It is such an easy pattern that we fall into when the sun slants through morning windows. You sigh and I laugh, faintly under our breath as if we are afraid to disturb the faint iridescent dust fluttering through the room. When you run a finger down my jawline, I can practically hear the golden arrow of our happiness whistle through the air. You whisper “beautiful,” into the spot w

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burn this mirror.

:iconcorina90:

this is the point i write a hook loud enough for you to hear it. i craft the words out of cells and marrow and spill them on the page in the right numerical order; hit just the right notes in time to bleed me dry. i write the truth in the harsh light under the kitchen sink right before i throw it down the garbage disposal where it belongs. i can't turn from the mirror on this white sheet of paper, and i can't shatter the reflection spewing from the ink of my pen. i can close my eyes and scream and cower in the corner and over the shrillness of my voice and under the shadow of my blindness, i will still be confronted with the truth of myself. i cannot run from my demons when they are what i am.

the truth is i will bring you the highest of your highs and the lowest of your lows. i will catapult you through the atmosphere and then be the anchor that drops your heart through the wood-plank-floor. i am a bottle marked antidote filled to the brim with the latest poison. i have the cure on my lips and death on my tongue, and i couldn't stop the interaction if i tried. i'm a calamity that is always ten seconds from falling apart. i am howling for help in the same breath that i am pleading with you to run for cover. i don't have a mindset for destruction, but the way i'm always eroding, i can't help the fatalities that follow me around like an echo.

if i twist my words in the right light, i can almost make it sound romantic. i can talk about my tornado-moods in a way that will make you want to crash into oz. i'll sing of my apocalypse heart in a way that will make you cross your fingers and wish for the end of the world on every 11:11. oh, but i won't be able to break the illusion and i won't be able to push you away, and i won't be able to tell you i love you in the only way that really matters: by letting you go. instead, i am selfish and i am pulling you deeper into the undertow just because i like the feel of your warmth. instead, i am selfish and i am feeding you sips of cyanide every time my molecules begin breaking down.

if i was good, i would push you away. if i was good, i would run and never look back. i would give you a breath of clean air and a quiet meadow and kiss your cheek and wish you luck. i would hope nothing but sweet summer nights for you and tranquil winter mornings. oh, but instead, i am hoarding you close. instead i am letting you build shacks in the middle of my emotional turmoil, and gnashing them with my beggar's teeth. i am selfish and wrong. i am a cancerous body exploding out of control. i can't stand the thought of taking death from you, and i can't stand the thought of another cotton-dress-smile giving you life, and i'm caught in the crossfire of my wants riddled with bullet holes. i'm tired and i'm mourning and i'm selfish and i'm hating myself --

and, worst of all, i am in love.
i kill what i love, and i am in love.
:iconcorina90:
{"If it makes you less sad, I will die by your hand
I hope you find out what you want, I already know what I am
and if it makes you less sad, we'll start talking again
and you can tell me how vile I already know that I am"
--brand new

full title: burn this mirror (shatter these words)
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:iconsoto-the-faceles-cat:
~Soto-The-Faceles-Cat Aug 22, 2011  Student Artist
this is very much what I like to read. i'm so glad i saw it. so hard to find a good piece to read lately : Thank you! :D
Reply
:iconsailorichigo:
~SailorIchigo Sep 26, 2010
The whole last stanza is totally amazing. Really sad but I think we've all felt that way before.
Reply
:iconanniferrr:
~anniferrr Sep 24, 2010  Student Photographer
"hit just the right notes in time to bleed my dry."
shouldn't that be 'me' instead of 'my'?

this is beautiful, megan, just like everything else you write. :heart:
Reply
:iconcorina90:
=corina90 Sep 25, 2010
yes, haha, yes it should. thank you! :]
Reply
:iconwolf-moon14:
~Wolf-Moon14 Sep 24, 2010  Student Writer
incredible
Reply
:iconcorina90:
=corina90 Sep 25, 2010
thank you<3
Reply
:iconchrisdwalker:
~ChrisDWalker Sep 23, 2010
positively stylistic
Reply
:iconcorina90:
=corina90 Sep 25, 2010
thank you.
Reply
:iconperidot-magelette:
~peridot-magelette Sep 23, 2010
this is fascinating in the way of a train wreck. in a good way.

btw, shouldn't it be "hit just the right notes in time to bleed ME dry" instead of "hit just the right notes in time to bleed my dry"?
Reply
:iconcorina90:
=corina90 Sep 25, 2010
yes, thank you for pointing that out!
Reply
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