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dark alley and too many ifs.there were things
that we promised each other
way back when;
and here we are,
with one of us
breaking those vows like wish-bones
in company with
sour words and cursed memories.
red.i don't know what's wrong.
it's not like
because i'm not,
and it's not as if
i hurt, because
how many nights have i kept myself awake
just to say
that i'm okay?
there's just too much
(or not enough, i don't know)
but i've come so far
and i can't spend tonight
look at your clock. it's tomorrow. all the seconds and minutes of yesterday are gone, disintegrated with the window dust. 12:00 a.m.; re birth.
i've always had this theory that in between 11:59 p.m. and 12:00 a.m., there's this vast ticking of nothingness that hovers between the minutes. just for a second, you are nowhere. the day is both finished and regenerating, and that's sort of magical. i always think that apollo falters, just for a second, as he puts the moon away, tucked neatly in his teeth.
born in a typewriter.
i can never think of how to start anything. the point, of course, is to grab the reader's attention before they become bored with your work and leave, and i don't know if i can do that. i am afraid i cannot ever begin to tell you all of my story.
if i were to be chronological, i would start with telling you when i began to write. but, 1: i am never
fuck, here we go again.the back roads--
a water bottle full of
god knows what,
and it burns a little going down.
that's okay. we all need that,
we touched a windmill.
and we leaned against it,
pointing at radio towers
with cheap cigarettes dangling between our lips
before we kissed,
sober, this time
stars screamed at us.
this is why
you like the country.
i wondered about our smoke
creating the stars
as it drifts out of our lungs
in clouds of post-code envy
(god, we need to get away from here).
that would take a long time.
that's okay. we've got time.
i was doing so well at this happy thing.from age five
it was the constant
voices (at home
and in my head)
telling me that i was
and then for 3 years
i was nothing.
i was the child
that dyed her hair and
told her dad that
she didn't want to get married
because it was all
for 3 years,
i was the girl who
wrote stories and folded them up in
to hang above my bed.
at 16 years old,
my dad tells me
that i'm too
i don't eat enough.
and i know that it's not
true. i eat
what my body needs.
and i had finally gotten
to the spot where
i felt comfortable.
no-- fuck, i felt good.
when i look in the mirror
all i see is my dad
telling me that i am a mess
(even though he never said
and that when he was my age,
he didn't have anxiety attacks
and my brother
may be a fuck up but
at least he's
mentally capable (sort of).
no matter what,
will always be better
and so will my
nicotine.there's something burning
about the numbness of menthols
and his eyes
when they bring back all the fucked up memories.
it's not like
i don't remember. no; i know
exactly what he did,
and i remember falling apart in red puddles
curled up on my bathroom floor.
but his love
is just like cheap cigarettes;
i just can't get the taste
out of my mouth.
we don't want to die. but
we're all going to.
s. Midnight came like a storm. I watched it take him by the waist and drag him away, fingers clawing at his sheets and shivers climbing over his limbs-- fever dreams. Moans died out in the back of his throat. I sat still as a winter night on the foot of his bed and didn't wake him, because the only thing worse for him than being eclipsed in a nightmare was being awake for one. We all know that.
People told me that there was no way that I could have seen the signs; no way to know what he was doing behind closed doors. But they didn't know that I did know. I saw the marks on his arms; not just the ones made by a needle, but the ones that ran horizontal for miles down not just his arms, and the ones I knew father made (another thing that I knew). I was there when he tried to dissect his wrist the first time, and I joined in with the echoes of 'oh my god I had no idea' and 'what a shame'.
We used to sit by the fir
here is my heart, and here is my home.i am done writing about
you can find me
in the "new beginnings"
isle, splashed with scar tissue and
dear child, open your
there are stars, a galaxy, and
there is breath in your lungs.
the past is never
you have lived through it,
swam through it and
maybe died a little
through it, but you
came out on top.
when this winter ends, it
will end harshly;
but spring comes every year,
and i hope that you
i hope you open your eyes
to rain and i hope
that you fall in love with
it, and i hope
that you let life move
like i had to.
i hated him first.when I was 13, a boy leaned over his desk and asked what was on my wrist, and i showed him, because they were just words. that was when i still wrote on my arms in blue ink; i needed some kind of reminder (though it's hard to say what for). his eyes flickered over my boney arms, and he pushed himself back to his seat and grinned-- then laughed.
"good," he said, "i thought you were cutting yourself or some shit."
i laughed, too, and while i laughed, something in me changed. i hated him. i hated him and his blonde hair and scarless skin and i hated the way that his teeth looked and i hated him. and while i smiled i started to hate myself, too, because i realized how ugly this made me.
but i still laughed.
i laughed because, yes, i was cutting myself, but i laughed because he was ugly, too. i laughed because i was the best actor in the world, and the best liar, too; i never had to lie and say i was fine, because nobody ever asked me if i were.
in that moment, we w
like demigod preachers for the already damnedthese scapegallow cynics &
stygian sermon speakers -
they're all histrionics & sinners,
they're all purgatory dwellers
oh, hades, are you supernova dreamers?
'cause the poets are all dead-end kids.
I know that today you didn't feel like getting up.
You thought the light from the window
looked a little less harsh from your pillow,
felt like gravity was stronger than most days,
thought that if it was any stronger,
it would swallow you whole.
I know you almost didn't get out of bed today.
I know you almost didn't pick up the razor today.
You almost didn't care enough to mark your losses,
to tally your skin with ritualistic conviction.
You almost didn't make that sacrifice,
but sometimes the voice that says
"atone" is the loudest one.
But know this-
Your body has been met with the force of gravity every day,
and has still managed to stand up right.
Your heart loves you more than you do,
it is stronger than diamonds,
every time you thought it had shattered,
that surely it would stop this time,
it kept going.
Your veins are tree roots,
and no matter how much you try to dig them up,
they keep you firmly planted.
They are beautiful.
You are beautiful.
No one else has the sa
purifyI could take a dozen
let the scalding water
burn the bruises
out of my skin,
empty the Atlantic
into the grating on the floor
and still not
be clean of you
all we ever do is decayI.
nobody falls in love with saturn,
but everyone, her rings.
this disjointed skull is a smirking
mirror bending back reflections.
this disjointed skull is a sleep-smoker.
you were a utopian seven lives ago,
but nobody lives in this body anymore.
.you are dead and buried
six feet under yourself,
still feeling the way you did
when you were seventeen
and when you bathe, you still
keep your head under the
water, wrists upturned, red
eyes open, trying to drown yourself
things I learned at 11 am while I was half-asleepi
I’m spending most of my time
not crying, and I’m sorry,
but I don’t think I’ll ever love anyone
as much as aspirin, or lullabies,
or the cheap wine sold for two dollars a bottle,
or overly-apologetic letters bending over backwards
to make a point of themselves, or the pink petals
blooming on my wrists like flesh and blood miracles,
or the songs named after women
things may not change,
but you will have to.
I am most alone
surrounded by people
and the buzzing in my head of words
that should have lost their meaning
back when I discovered
they never meant anything
Dedications are only relevant
to people who appreciate shitty poetry,
or you. Insanity is writing the same thing
over and over and expecting it not
to sound clichéd.
and as much as anyone will swear otherwise,
I am a statistic. A number, an example,
a case study in the manipulation of
narcissism and moving on
excuses for why I'm shakingwe live in a world of apologies.
I made a mistake a year back,
choosing my addiction to oxygen
over less demanding things.
I’m sick of trembling for problems
that aren’t mine and I’m sick of trying
to romanticize black holes and
the indiscriminate nature of lithium and
I’m sick of waking up every morning
feeling sick. and truly, I’m sorry
but I’m not ready to accept my role
in the making of myself. I’m not ready
to lament for those with a smaller
pain tolerance, and for my dislike
of anything that requires commitment.
I’m sorry I miss you and I’m sorry
I won’t admit that out loud.
how scary is it to be something
so unalterably heavy, to be diagnosed
as your own worst enemy, but god,
you’re so fucking beautiful,
and not in the stereotypical boy
meets girl meets fairytale way, but
the kind that makes my heart
bleed a million miles quicker.
I just wanted to cry on all
your scars and wash them clean.
when things are bad for
The Problem With Elia.she could have been a violin;
born a week too late, she had
melancholy in her bones: doctor lizbet
took time out of her schedule to pluck her
newborn strings - calloused sanitation against
mottled pink-and-yellow flesh & thrashing limbs.
in three more years, she will have
nothing in her bones at all: doctor estair
diagnosed her with iatrophobia to fuel her
instinctive chords - ripple-free shells of liquid
lobotomy & a capsule to callous her pink-and-yellow
flesh against the thought of just getting over it all.
ten years after that, her mother will
find her face down and thrashing: her dust
bunny bones will flex as she retches up her memories
for display - lawyers will spend the next few years pawing
through them with clawed hands and heaving breathing until
one day, they find lizbet and estair huddled amid the rubble of her bones.
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A two-time Community Volunteer for the deviantART Related category, Anne is well-known as a positive, helpful force. She is the community's resident expert when it comes to CSS (Cascading Style Sheets), and her personal gallery offers a wide variety of tutorials for new and experienced coders alike. In addition, each winter she hosts a calendar project encouraging members to create Journal designs for all to use, bringing more creativity to the community.
It is with immense gratitude that we acknowledge Anne as the recipient of the Deviousness Award for October 2014. Read More