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hurricane eloise.Eloise's parents named her after a hurricane that destroyed their house in 1975.

She, however, had never destroyed anything (a friendship, a home, a heart) beyond the crystal vase she had dropped when her cousin jumped from behind the table and spooked her when she was twelve. This made her feel uncomfortable - as if she was a peasant wearing Cinderella's shoe or a woman squeezing into a girl's sweater. She once tried to tell her parents this, how her name was like a false second skin stretched too tight, but couldn't find the words and ended up sighing instead.

When she told them never mind, they smiled briefly before returning to the war-
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
way back when.back then, i thought i knew it all. i thought i could sit on the cliff edge, jump and call it flying. i thought i could kiss sea air with chapped lips and call it love. there was a beautiful pain that i associated with life, an aching burn that i was foolish enough to embrace. my bones would light on fire and i would dance, dance, dance until my feet were dissolving on the shoreline and i was throwing the remnants of my words like breadcrumbs into the wind.

it was fast and dangerous and loud. it was like cracking your bones to know the sound of heartache along with the splintering marrow. it was like touching your tongue to acid just to feel
in these words, i will live.this world spins fast, and still, i wonder at how i spin faster.

i wonder at how i dredge words up recycled from my lungs and unravel them into the air without care for the final product. i wonder at my love for the act of spinning, for the exhilarating, light-headed feeling i get when exposing every hidden flaw and every not-so-secret desire. you see, i am constantly coughing up my heartache and i have to wonder at the addicted high; the need to tell every sting and every warmth. the need to break open my ribcage and spill out these emotions onto canvas and paper, smearing the colors with dirtied fingertips before moving on.

yet, i do not
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
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
seaside gifts.this is what i would give to you:

i would give you sea castles during high tide. i would give you an empty beach and a storm rolling in, the sea flagging the danger and the sky rolling in anxiety. the ocean was deepen to sleet gray and i would be waiting in it, the cotton of my dress soaked to my ankles. we could find release in the storm, slipping the silent killers from our bones to wash out with the dregs of the hurricane. the rain would come in with a crack across the sky and we could hold each other through it. our clothes could be sopping wet and flapping in the wind, but we would be rocks. screaming, kissing, unlocking our chests and
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
things they say_c.they say time runs wells dry and that passion simply cannot stand through years without bearing the wounds of the weight. they say that flames are diminished by the winds that create barriers amongst far-spread lovers. they say that hearts cannot settle in one place and needs cannot be met by single souls. they say a lot of things, a lot of doubts. they speak through chapped lips and they whisper fear into my bones. they tell me that love cannot last and that life cannot love. they speak a lot, but the way you are looking at me and the way my bones are setting on fire is telling me something different. I look your way and the only thing I hea
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
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
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
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
home.i press my cheek to the window and for a moment, all i am able to focus on is the pattern my breath plays along the glass. it is a simple emotion and a simple thought and the way my lungs collapse to force the air from between my pursed lips is enough to soak in the rest of my thoughts like a dry and waiting sponge. the voice of the person to my left is butter and velvet, sifting through the air - each and every syllable seeking through the space between us as if to find a resting place, as if with each moment suspended in the air they might be able to find a place to call home.

it is with reluctance that i turn my cheek, drawing myself back
pointless.the point is:
there has never been a point
i am drinking from an empty cup
i am wondering why i am still thirsty
i am writing with an inkless pen
i am angry at my hollow words.
my car is rumbling under its breath
i turned it off five minutes ago
it sounds alive even though it is not

the truth is:
there is actually no truth
my tongue is ripped from falsehoods
it is dipped in sin like a candle string into wax
my bones are black and white, but mostly grey
i am muted even though i am howling
i believe myself even when i shouldn't
i don't believe in truth anymore
none of this is true.

the beauty of it is:
the world actually
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silent screams.taste the venom between the smacking
of twin lips as they break their joint spine
and revel in the sound of death drilling
behind your eyelids until alone is a sound
you think you might want to rest in.

close your heart and button up the shutters
and board up the doors until the wind howls
and the chain is beating against the wood
with a hollow sound like a fist knocking,
but you know better, because no one has
knocked on this door since thirteen hundred
days ago when time was starting and you
had fresh pain[t] and a bright smile.

music hurts in the way of your skin peeling
and love is too bright to even look at and
the voice
one more step.it's nights like this that make me wish i could gnash mountains between my teeth and drain the stars from the sky. it's nights like this that leave my limbs cold and my hands crackling so i'm on the floor trying to pick up all the pieces littered in the corners. theoretically, if i decompose, i'll find a way to compose myself before morning, but such a composition would never be music to the bleeding composite tongue binding around me.

[i'm wailing on the airwaves, trying find the right frequency, but it's hard to hear my thoughts around all the static.]

the wind is too cold for june and my heart is too frosted for the heat of this love cha
we are eternity.Tell me, darling, how do we best count time?

If you wish, I can reboot my system so we might run through the system and backed up files until we come up with the hard answer. We can have it in Eastern, Central, Pacific or Neverland and still be left with empty numbers. We can cross-divide and carry over our hearts, add the sum of our parts until we're nothing but decimal points flashing on the ambiguous screen. We can disconnect and rewire, throw our cyber-smiles against the wall until it's been reduced to springs and forlorn beeps of the dying machine.

Still, we'll have our answer: thirty days.

Or, if you prefer, I can break my poet's ton
the emptiest word in the worldyou're the kind of beautiful that breaks down centuries.

you have the appeal of bloodied smiles and epidemics and time winding down on the cliff edge of your poet's mouth. you're holding together shattered dreams between scarred palms and sobbing with the strain, but refusing to let go. you're picking up birds with broken wings and taping them together, refusing to give up even when they teeter off your flesh to plummet to earth like stone. refusing to stop, refusing to give in, refusingrefusingrefusing--

and you keep repeating: one more time, one more breath, one more and you'll fix them.

you're two shades from a sunrise and four seconds
no more sailing_cThe sun is setting and something in the way the light is haloing the horizon makes me think of the forest green rimming the caramel of your eyes. I sit and pluck beach grass as I watch the tips of the sails in the distance flare moments before the darkness claims them. I imagine the same night coming to steal and curl in your lungs. I imagine it bringing restful peace as you breathe in the tiny golden dust particles that swirled around my palms earlier today while at market. I imagine the light that brushed your cheekbones yesterday is slipping under my tongue as I stretch awake. I imagine we're tied together at the spinal cord and expanded o
tide pools of disbelief.broken words splinter
beneath my feet
and i'm perched
on the faded edge
of what beauty
looked like before you
went and rearranged it.

from here, i can see
the distant salted shore
where you are cradling
the rest of my life amongst
the rest of the vowels
missing from my disjointed,
nonsensical confessions.

leaning against the vacant
air your bones should be filling,
i'm suddenly aware i'm nothing
but empty palms and scattered
sheets of music and if i was to cry
would you close your eyes to pretend
the collapse of my lungs is a poem?

would you write me a promise,
carve me a secret and fold them
in broken glass bo

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the time it takes.

:iconcorina90:

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.

a second.

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 in wait. as if we knew; as if we knew. a second. it's the time for your knees to crash against the grass, for your spine to disassemble and fall like cracking autumn leaves. for the weight of the world to press against your shoulder blades with no relief.

it is the time it takes for you to reach for atlas' burden, to swallow the grief of the world and lay with your palms against its pulse. the time it takes to dissolve reason so that you are left wondering why this pain feels like home, why this name no longer fits the curve of your tongue, why this once thriving friendship has become nothing but a festering wound. the time for you to realize that this loss has become your weight to carry, your burden to shoulder - yours.

a second and you have become atlas, you have become the world and you are heavy, drenched, soaked through and sopping with tears and years. you are lead in the arms of your lover and dragging them under. you are waking in cold sweats, every noise the clicking of gunmetal. you dream with blood splatters against the back of your mind and wake with it dripping down to your trembling fingertips. your muscles are strained, your tendons blown, every ligament ruptured and swollen. you have become bruised and contorted, worn down with sorrow and sharpened with fear. you have become death within life, you have become misery in memory, you have become  the echo of that single gunshot fire - and all it took was a second.
:iconcorina90:
{"would you know my name if I saw you in heaven?
would it be the same, if I saw you in heaven?
I must be strong and carry on
'cause I know I don't belong here in heaven"
--eric clapton

last weekend, i lost a childhood friend of mine to a tragic accident.
there will never be another person like him.
he was larger than life itself.
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:iconthenobodyofasoldier:
Mood: Sympathy ~TheNobodyofaSOLDIER Jun 9, 2012   General Artist
Oh my goodness. :'( My heart goes out to you. God bless. <3
Reply
:iconcorina90:
=corina90 Jun 10, 2012
<3
Reply
:iconvigilo:
*Vigilo May 6, 2011  Student Writer
"a second and you have become atlas, you have become the world" beautiful and poignant, and I am so sorry for your loss. A beautifully sad read.
Reply
:iconcorina90:
=corina90 May 8, 2011
thank you, love. :hug:
Reply
:iconmasvida:
~masvida Apr 4, 2011
I don't really know what to say.
Your love for your friend is obvious and amazing and beautiful <3
That's pretty incredible, and that love is what holds the world together so you don't have to.
It'll be okay somehow, love. :heart:
Reply
:iconkj-illustration:
*KJ-Illustration Apr 1, 2011  Professional Digital Artist
Hi :heart: Your beautiful piece has been featured in my March Feature: [link] :love: :hug:
Reply
:icongirlofgreys:
~GirlOfGreys Mar 17, 2011  Professional Photographer
I'm sorry for your loss. I'm sure he was as beautiful as this poem.
Reply
:iconeyesfullofstardust:
~eyesfullofstardust Mar 16, 2011
your poems are all beautiful, and have a sort of tone and word usage that has become a pattern.
this one, however, stands apart from them all
you make me fall more in love with words, poem by poem.
Reply
:iconicecold13:
~Icecold13 Mar 15, 2011
That's pretty cool. I like the recurring theme of a second.
Reply
:iconaieren:
~aieren Mar 15, 2011  Hobbyist General Artist
Love, love, love this piece :heart:
Reply
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