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a poem about too many people and too much heart.you were my
conclusion- the last paragraph
and the last thing
i got to say.
i loved you and i
took words from
between my eyelashes and i
put them down for
you, i took you apart
a million times
in my mind and always put you
and i drew
you, soft and silhouetted
window, the pane
foggy and i thought of you
in the darkest of
times, because i kept telling myself
that you were the
light (like you
i know that i am just
a girl with
too much heart and
too weak of ribs; but
i was hoping
that you would help the foxes
hunt the hounds, just for
bird lungs and a burnt tongue.someone once asked me
what it's like to be a
and i thought about
how i always feel like there is a
crow stationed in my chest,
residing under my lungs like they are
an umbrella- it hums and
i think that i hate this bird for the way
it is pecking against my
heart in the vain hope of finding
spare typewriter keys. it puts the
fiction in my
blood; it keeps me
alive, and that is the worst thing it
so when someone asked
question, i said that being a writer is
very lonely, and it is very
sad, and that i would not choose any other
way of living.
april.here is the
i am just a
sad teenage girl with
too many scars and
a healing heart.
but here is what
i am learning to find
in the misery-
i am internally alone and
seemingly petrified (which is a
terrible mix, really), but
i am finally able
to let myself fall in
and i may be bad at
endings, but i think
i'm beginning to understand that mine
doesn't have to be
untitled.there are days when i can't
eat- i am full of
cheap cigarettes and words
i never got to
i have gone to the
planets. there is something
in my bones that tastes a lot like
stars- i broke them open and
saw everything i ever
wanted to, and that was what
destroyed me in the end.
if you were to take me
apart, i'm not sure what you would
find; i am a mess of
half finished sentences and
scars that have eaten their way
you ate the stars and i ate my heart.this is how i was
fell in love with a boy
with razor sharp
teeth and a
poet's heart. it's really a
pretty kind of thing.
using his borrowed
tongue, he took me in like a
four a.m cigarette (slowly, and
with loneliness in every one of his
joints). we both thought
that enough smoke
would fill in the cracks in our
rib cages; we were both
he told me that he would
like to be a
planet: "all that open
space, all those dying
stars. it would give me room to
instead of telling him that
there is no oxygen in
outer space, i
watched him feel his lungs
implode. it broke my
bones to witness it; but it's really a
dreadfully pretty thing to
.quietly, i was kissed
in a house of
they burned out;
i began to fall in love
with all the
wax stuck to my
dog days.i was once lost
in the way
that flowers grew-
but then you took me
to a field of
and laid me down and
kissed me; and suddenly
i no longer felt the need
underdog.if home is where the
heart is, then
that's probably why
my bones feel like they cannot yet
settle: i have been homeless
i find myself caught between
the fibers of thread and
the curls of a lover's
hair- and i came to realize that
it hurts to be this
vacant. the light behind my eyes is
the wind tastes of
lonely nights and
makes me wonder if anyone else
knows what it's
like to have your soul reside
between the pages of a
book that nobody cares to
to have dust caked on your lips
from kissing highways and
the places you've never been wrapping around your
neck like a
late at night or
very early in the
morning, i think to myself that
if home is where the
heart is, then we're all just
cherry blossoms.one after the
other, we swallowed
until we bled ourselves
all- their feathers stuck
in my stomach. you, darling,
you bloomed under my palm like a
mountain, like the
sunrise. i watched
as you traced two golden
wings with your
tongue, like some kind of
dusk and dawn god
after all that
skin and dust and
love was gone, you turned to me
and almost smiled
went away. i am still trying
to understand how to
How to love a poet: Expect them to be flawed,
a field of wild flowered-
& an inability
Love them anyway.
Know that when they look at you
they are noticing the little things.
how to wish on impossible thingsThere is a girl made up of impossible legends.
She lives in the fragments of wishes that will never come true.
When pennies lose their shine and heads become tails
After every eyelash is lost in the whisper of a breath
Until wishing wells dry up and all the stars fall from the sky,
She will only be the words that created her
we are kings and queenshis eyes are bluer than the oceans
in my hands, the sea inside my
purple flecks like my sailboats
lost in the storm.
his heart weighs heavier
than the little newborn in his arms,
cradling to his
chest and saying, "hi,
i'm your daddy.
i'm your daddy—well, i'm going to
try to be your daddy."
but his wings sound
like the bleat of a lamb's; wet,
and i could tear the pieces off
his hands are trains,
crashing into my body like my
skin is the tracks.
four am and we're watching info-mercials,
repeating the scenes
over and over in our heads like
legs tangled, thorns stabbing into our
fleshy sides as we
"baby girl, baby girl,"
he whispers, cradling me to
his chest, hair tickling,
"baby girl," he says,
"i'll never get rid of you."
i sit at an empty desk,
chipping away at my nail polish.
homicides are not always humani tried to forget but you planted a seed
in my brain that you constantly watered with thoughts
that i was never good enough. i tried to forget
but it sprouted between my scalp and
shut my eyes tight and sewed my lips together
without words. you punctured my trachea to let the
sunlight into my ribcage, my lungs pumping
oxygen to the weeds that grew steadily around my
neck as if you had built me a noose. and once
its leaves had coiled themselves around the bone
structure called my spine i gave up, because
nausea paralyzed me as your fingers dug deeply into
my chest cavity, looking for the thorns inside so
you could press them into my skin. i tried to forget you,
but i was soon enraptured by the rose that bloomed
from my brain matter, shouting "we won't sink this time, we
won't sink," but it ended up wilting as the petals
fell down my cheeks. i counted them: he loves me, he
loves me not. but i never found out which one it
may have been because you pluck
how to become a writer (and how to hate your work)discover your high intelligence
at an age you really shouldn't, because
iq's higher than einstein should
not be located in the second grade.
grow up without a dad around.
grow up with a mom who wants money
learn that hello's are the best and
goodbye's are the hardest.
(because you are never good enough.)
(because all good things come to an end.)
(because you aren't a daddy's girl.)
get it through your head
that no matter how many straight a's you get
and no matter how many times
you try to run away,
they'll catch you.
and being drug home is the worst possible defeat
(because they'll just beat you again.)
learn that wrists are not the best
have a bible shoved in your face
and be told that you are
a mistake in the highest of forms
and meet a christian guy
who claims that he's going to save you and
he's got seven years on you.
(tell him you love him and take your clothes off
I am the moon walker,
the black coffee athlete
in the star-dotted evening gown.
I am young, but I feel old,
like an antique with
Sleep lives in my shadow,
a morphine caregiver
with gentle hands,
but I dare not fall into his arms.
There is a sad knowledge
in his eyes
that I do not trust.
You left me behind,
but my pillow still
smells like you,
and now my bed feels
like a fucking coffin
without you in it.
Nights like this
make me wonder
what it feels like to die.
It bothers me that
only the dead know,
and they refuse to share their secret.
One day I will find out
the truth for myself,
and that scares me.
Three a.m. teaches you
how to suffer quietly.
Sleep pulls on my sleeve
like a black-cloaked child.
He tells me everything will be alright
(but by morning, I know
he will be gone, and
I will be alone again).
the higher they stand, the harder they fallhe considers her a stranger.
she could've been a singer or a
dancer or a baker or a star, but she
chose to be a fighter because
lovers always lose (in
the ironic, metaphorical sense.)
she could've been happy, but she didn't
choose that path.
because "it is better to have loved,
but sometimes old washed-out poets
like tennyson are not always right.
love is a hurricane of
sticks and stones that may or may not
break skeletal frames and hearts.
once: he considered her a maybe-
infatuation, because eight-thirteenths
of a heart is not,
i repeat not,
enough to love someone.
twice: he considered her just another
feather in a bird flock,
and strangely, that was okay with her.
but she was a fighter and
he was her magnum opus of sorts.
goddamn, did you see that girl
thrash at the waves
just to hold on to a tiny piece
of a man not strong enough to hold his own?
she was a fighter because
he claimed he was a lover, but in the end
she lost and he was still
are my words poetic enough for you?maybe not.
because i will never be the fire-hearted girl with remedial stardust lips,
dancing with the astral wolves that hunt beneath her moon-kissed skin,
with the courage to plant wilting lilacs into every crippled soul she finds.
but what if they were?
then i would be the ink blots coating the archives of humankind,
the fractured jewel tucked away in a catastrophic dragon's chest,
and the lyric every mismatched bone engraves into their marrow.
a poem on the inner workings of my chaotic mindit isn't like i'm
lazy or anything it's just that
the thought of getting lost
in a crowd of ten or more people
makes me want to puke.
this is not just some
stupid little hang-up that you can
joke about when i'm
digging my fingernails into my palm so
hard that blood is drawn as we walk through
school hallways so packed that it feels
like we're suffocating from too much
oxygen but i just grit my teeth and
laugh "yeah, i know, i just don't like
being around people sometimes."
but you know,
there's just something about the way
my mother says "go out and have a life
and stop looking like the world
betrays you every day"
that makes my stomach drop
or when my dad looks at me and just
sighs, like they've finally realized
i was never good enough to be
and to everyone who believes that
i just need to relax,
to just calm down and think:
fuck you. fuck you for trying to pretend
like you know how it feels when my
bones grind together like broken
gears as i walk by people who may
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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