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time withers (but i will not break)they say time withers, but that we would never bend. now, i'm not so sure. friendship once forged in fire is growing weak at the base and arthritic at the joints. love cast in steel is now rusted and stained, dissolving at the mere sight of the sun. i trusted you. i did. i wore my heart on my sleeve and bled my tongue from my mouth just to show you the truth of the matter. i swallowed the guilt until it threatened to chew away at the strings holding me up; until i woke up screaming, my lungs giving out in protest as i writhed between cotton sheets, teeth biting the pillow to suppress the next anguished cry threatening to rip from my throat. i
i begin and end with you.How do you go about explaining love to someone who has never felt it? How do you put into words the sweetness of the first kiss or the bitterness of the first goodbye or the hundred pinpricks of emotion you feel each and every time lip parts lip? If I were to try, I wouldn't start with the first embrace or the first touch or the first time your tongue swept the top of your mouth and you breathed my name. I wouldn't start with the first time nail bit into hip or teeth into shoulder or the first time you cried my name and I cried yours. I wouldn't talk about the first time that we held hands under the branches of the willow, limbs interlaced as
slow motion guilt or acid tripread my lips--lift the kiss print.
come a little closer, perfect fit.
read my heart's aortic charts,
literature for the broken arts.
read my skin cells,
sex cells, jail cells.
the bookstore sells
cancer cells. i read
this one already; it
sucks. the ending
sucks. all endings
suck. but this one
read my mind--you're on it.
inside you'll find
a boy in a closet,
carving bones from his
skeleton safety deposit
read my bone structure:
not a chordate.
cut off my patella: loves me;
break my tibia: loves me not
(i put the 'fib' in 'fibula'
spineless.sometimes i put my hand
to my back and trace my spine
just to make sure its still there.
i will never grow up,
never be beautiful enough,
never pull that haze of
green smoke into or away
from my chest.
that is your home,
and i regret to say that
i have lost your eviction
im terribly sorry for the
way you still make me bleed
silent screams biting
their way over my tongue;
im terribly sorry,
but how the fuck can i
stop loving you when i cant
forget you long enough to look
in the mirror and see you in the
you tell me in no (un)certain words
that i am not anything to you,
and i just nod and smile,
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
it won't, i know that.Let me tell you a story. Let me paint you a picture.
It’s dark and I’m alone and the wind is howling and once upon a time, I might have made this sound poetic. I’m crying, but it’s not pretty. I’m crying and my nose is red and my hands are shaking and the cigarette is limp between my scarred, calloused fingers. I once might have made this sound pretty. I might have made it sound desirable. Did you want a high? All you had to do was touch my skin, to feel your way down my sweat-slicked hips. Did you want to get buzzed? You just had to soak in the passion like alcohol and let your mind go wild. I used to have noth
writing for me.What if today I chose to write for myself?
What if I didn’t pick metaphors that would pull the heartstrings of readers or make sense to sensible minds? If I did choose to write for me, and me alone, I think that I would talk about how cold pools always make me feel sad. I would say that chlorine reminds me of tears because both always manage to sting your eyes. But I wouldn’t talk about the day when I was seventeen with my feet dipping into the side. I wouldn’t talk about how my dog walked up next to me and was licking my face when I was told that she had died. How I couldn’t think of anything but the shriveled skin o
i really do believe it.Maybe I will write something sweet.
Maybe I will kiss your slumbering mouth, touch tongue to lip and sing of the taste of honey. It would be light as air cotton sheets and bare feet. It would be nectar to aching tongues and water to the disbelieving. I would spin sugar into words and paint meadows on naked chests. I would dip my fingers into wading pools of hope and wash them over blank canvas, let the dripping acrylic tell stories of tomorrows with eternal sunshine. I would take molds of happiness and press my laughing mouth against the fold of the envelope as I send it onward into the great beyond.
Maybe I will write something bitt
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
intercontinental.when the world is quiet and the dawn is breaking, it's your hands that i'm taking. the world is caught in the moment our lips part, a dreamcatcher hung from the eyelashes resting like moons on our cheeks. we are capturing the globe in the spaces between our teeth and exchanging it on twisting tongues, tasting the continents on individual tastebuds. when we kiss, european flavors are mingling with asian accents and south american highlights; our mouths together are a world market of billowing fabric and exotic flavor that we could spend all afternoon exploring.
we are breathing in spice and the heady scent of bazaars and when we c
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
spilled sugar.i am allowed to love you.
it is like fire in my teeth,
static between the braids
in my hair (interwoven with
clover and black eyed susan).
i love you separately and the same.
i know what your breath
tastes like to my ear,
again i live for your
hands on my flesh,
spilling bodies all around
the whiteness of
we are tangled like poetry.
slurring my anti-words,
i write you a note
in the letters i etch
down the parkway of
i want you to burrow
under my flesh
hair worn in double-
coils the same as our
my head will roll into your
lap, cheeks pink like
indian sunburn, and
dear t, love m_cDear M, I used to wonder if the collision of our skin would be the ignition of rapidfire passions, the birth of brilliant starlight in the cold of loneliness, of suffocating space. I used to imagine that the heat of your breath would spill across my tongue, and reignite the cold ashes in my lungs. I used to hope that the sway of my skeleton and the clacking of my bones could be a rhythm you would stay around and dance to. I used to dream of us on moonlit beaches, sleeping on the waves and swimming through the sand. I used to do a lot of things, but your shiver-up-my-spine smile tends to drag my thoughts out to quieter seas.
Dear T, I used
we love - i dreamwe are swimming in the ocean and our lungs are turned inside out. we are creating black holes with the tips of our fingers and pushing in our doubts into the center of the void. we know that truth isn't a truth so much as a guess and we are therefore given the liberty to create our own. we are the truth. love is the truth. we can stand in fields and hold the falling sky on our shoulders and call spring our truth. because
love is a spear and it is bracing my spine from yielding. my mouth is stumbling on the words i have always known and i am teaching the phrases to my lips once more. your palms are resting on the skulls of resti
the time it takes.a second.
a single breath - the time it takes for your tongue to catch between your teeth, the phone to crack the floorboard, the bullet to pierce the flesh. a second. it doesn't take much longer than that. for life to become death, for centuries of grooves to washout in the flash flood, for a name, a face, a memory to become nothing but two sentences in black ink on the back page of the thrown away paper. for today's tragedy to become yesterday's news.
the first emitted noise of the scream - the time it takes for your lips to peel apart, the noise to uncork in your belly, the grief to be unleashed from where it had been laying i
i am not a writer.i do not know how to write.
i do now understand the concepts and the themes; words are just shapes pressed together in an attempt to say what my tongue cannot and the phrases are already so clogged in my throat that i am a champagne bottle with all the fizz and none of the pleasure. ink stains and pencil smears and typewriters break so that i am left with nothing but ripped shards of paper falling around my elbows and piling around my feet in an attempt to sculpt meaning out of the absence of what i was meant to fill.
you see, writers know the way to phrase and they know the brush they have in their hand. it is careful and planned and the a
heart of my heart.when the sky is high and the ocean is deep; when the wind is singing and the stars are sighing; when the trees are whispering secrets of life into open ears and when the soil is warming under the waking sun: these are the moments in which i know. these are the moments in which i can tell. it is the moment between the silence and the breath between the words. it is the moment when time suspends and the pencil stills and the sentences don't flow, but rather clog and jam and fold unto themselves so that they are impossible to pick apart and understand.
these are the moments in which i know.
it is the moment when you first wake and your first m
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`anmari has been spreading her infectious positivity throughout our community for over 6 years. Throughout this time Ana has been at the core of all things devious, passionately developing an eclectic gallery, helping organise devmeets, participating in chat events and also recently completed dedicating her time as a Community Volunteer. We are absolutely delighted to bestow the Deviousness Award for May 2013 to `anmari, congratulations! Read More