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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
collar full.shots taken
on a creaky bridge
in the outskirts of this damned town.
captain morgan and coke
makes my eyes water
but i was so lifeless and bored
so i took it down in ginger gulps.
i called my ex boyfriend
and asked him
to come to town,
i wanted to see him,
and he came.
and i kissed him.
(but he kissed me first, and
i don't regret it).
we drove to the country
and i thought
i was going to throw up
(drank too much,
weighing 110 isn't a plus for holding your drink)
and he offered
to hold my hair.
half empty of bottle in his hand
and me in the other
his skin felt like ecstasy.
the night was never ours,
we pretended that it was.
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
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
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.
'the only time
we ever looked at the stars and
was the night i left.
we both went home
and for once
you didn't ask
if i got home safe,
and for once
i wasn't glad that i had.
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.
almost.i could tattoo
a map over my breastbone
and it still wouldn't be enough
to show you
that i'm going to leave.
snitchers and talkers.words stick
to the inside of
my smile. they
are what keep my
eyes open and
my stomach tight.
(and talk and talk and talk)
about things they
my mom once said
is gonna try and tell me
what i'm going to be.
here, people have cornhusks
in their ears and
study their reflections in the bell jar
poised above my flaming
they think that i am
a game. a silly
or at least
i think they think
that i am.
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
in the blink of an eyeshe was born on a day when
tectonic plates were crashing against each other
and i think that’s a good metaphor for her:
she was always the kind of person who fought
battles, even ones she couldn’t win.
she was a mess of moments she should have
taken seriously and too many times she tried
to laugh off the pain.
i learned how to care about other people
too much by watching her.
diagnosed as a grenade, she told me one day,
sure to blow up in someone’s face.
you’re going to be fine, i told her.
just let me leave, she said and
i wish i had, but i couldn’t,
not until she kicked and screamed her way
out of the doors, resenting everything
that stayed, a friend by memory alone.
i still have the scars from her detonation.
i will probably carry then with me until
i, too, leave.
fast friends make fast ends make sad ends make
wondering when she stopped caring
enough to not even want to say goodbye.
to the new girl, don’t worry:
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
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
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.
what I forgot to sayto the girl who lives like a hurricane:
don’t expect to tell me about
your addiction to self-harm and
Nyquil and have me smile;
although, as I shiver from lakewater
and things less tangible, I seem to
acquire a talent for glossing over the list
of things I need to tell you--
is an asshole. California does not
begin and end in a tiny town where
people operate like clockwork around
the same happy working song. I am not
a fountain of wisdom, and, to be honest,
I can barely understand you over the
thunderstorms in my own brain.
you are beautiful and you are
to the girl I left back in time:
purpose is not a given. I am
the same teenage angst who used
to wear too much eyeliner and
complain about my future
as I’d foretold it-- loveless and whiny,
like me. I am her plus a few more
self destructions and minus
a lot more days to continue striving
alongside you for simple goals and
simple friends and simple memories
I won’t remember.
to the girl who see
uselessi must have ripped
a million petals from
thousands of flowers
to see if you'd come back
when you didn't
i shoved them
as far down
the garbage disposal
and we'll rotoh, poet boy,
you are not
or honey bones
& you have only
ever been a god
inside of your own head
a vespertine hauntingi was once six years old
and i was once cradled
in the tired arms of a
who could only cry
and she'd call sometimes,
"Cass," she'd say,
"baby, i've been drinking again
and your father left -
baby, he left and i can't find him."
i'd put her books away then
and try to find the pills
she never wanted to take.
"do you think he's hiding, Cassandra?"
"no," i'd say, and tie her hands;
i was so much more
of my father than i would have liked
to be, "he told me you need these."
"oh no i don't, baby."
"yes, Mama you do."
goes the goddamned weasel,
just in her
it was silent in my room and silent
when she slept
but i was only six and the world
made less sense
to my squinted eyes and
disoriented speech because
the night was her haven -
i was her haven -
she screamed and turned
enough to make the earth's
rotation seem slower
and hours get longer
and the tick drag
fucking tock seemed more
and more interminable
than the f
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Bluefley has a gallery filled with artwork that whisks you off in to a Sci-fi daydream, and keeps you captivated for hours. Marc has been a member of our community for over a decade and has achieved nothing but success with his astounding commitment to interacting with the community, sharing a prolific amount of video tutorials and generally being an all round rockstar deviant. It is no joke that we are absolutely delighted to award the Deviousness Award for April 2014 to ... Read More