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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
train tickets are like 200 bucks.i loved her for
the miles between us,
and i think i
might always do so.
she is printed in my mind,
like some halfbreed stoner dream
and i feel her colors like
sun. rain. hurricane.
leaves side vertically
in my veins,
the left side of a bicycle
wheeling around my brain
and she is a fucking drug, man.
i think i'm gay.
i'm not saying that just to
say it, either. i just
why else would i write letters to her
even though she'll never read them,
and why do i wonder how she looks
right on the verge of
sleep? i think about kissing her
a lot. it's always her.
she is my now. my then.
my way bak when.
but most of all, she is my
why, and that is
this isn't an ed.how foolish i am
that i can never eat in the mornings
because it's too soon
to think about all that
and how simple i am
that i can just push it all away
and actually start over
to become a writer.parents divorce before you can talk.
write about it
like you don't care.
try to mean it.
go through months
of shitty pity-leaking almost-poems
before you get one
that actually makes someone feel
say that it was all a mistake.
only feel like a writer
when you're insecure.
fall in love
with someone. anyone.
that's it's just for fun. just for being
actually love the hell out of them.
mess it up.
write about it.
smoke 2-5 cigarettes every day,
but with the hopes
of saving your lungs for running
(a metaphor? another rule: never tell)
and drink and drink and drink
until you have the courage
to call up ex boyfriends
or lovers or dead friends
to say that you miss them.
write about that-
like you don't care.
everyone knows that you care.
write about that.
/ we smile at the universe with ashes on our lips. there are boats inside of our veins. the blood is a metaphor and, hell, i can't even begin to write about her.
i could tell any story. if i wanted, i could write a novel about my mother and how beautiful she was a sixteen or i could make a lighthouse a person, but i cannot tell you the color or her eyes. it's that that i don't know it; i just can't tell you. it's not a color, it's a place.
her eyes are like Chicago. there's life and lights and lakes, but there's a sadness, too. even so, it's a happy kind of sad. the kind that gives you hope.
sometimes when i'm high i think that i'm dead, because i get numb. not physically senseless, but just mentally dazed. i forget where i am. i like that. it seems sometimes like i am a place, i am all the street signs and the cracks in the road and badly painted house down the way. see the really faint dot on the map? that's me. scribb
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.
a haiku for every boy i've ever kissed.i.
our lips were chapped. it
was February and we
were so very young.
this was the first year
i died my hair black. we were
only half in love.
it is heartbreaking,
because i can't remember
where you kissed me first.
you tasted like heat,
it was summer. i was
hardly just fifteen.
with your tongue shoved down
my throat, you told me sex was
nothing to be feared.
part of me wanted
you to be my last breath; the
last thing i saw bloom.
.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
for frost: we need not live in vigilwe don't have to split a fork
in two (or ten or six); may then diverge
our Paths along the path
not finite, un-impossible? you
may have rule and road, miles and
sir. the Hoarfrost gathers great
on you, like winter on the words
you forged from wood and wakeful spurs
remainders); like ornaments
that decorate dull
in any other season.
you are boxed and labeled, kept
in the murky & foreclosed adjunct space
that borders the heart but never enters
a tease of a tease to touch
the lives of those who happen by
i've left minds more open and
know travels- even in the way
everyone travels- that will carry me
for miles until i sleep.
i keep my hair like i keep my blue jeans: shortthe beginning
she was all curls falling over shoulders and small hands and slender ankles, but she was also all crooked toes and cheek moles and half-baked smiles. she wore skinny jeans too long and too big on her and she always wore a jacket because she was always cold. and he thought that she was pretty beautiful the first time he saw her in a parade, sitting on top of a dodge truck and waving with both hands so that no one was left out. she was the kind of pretty beautiful that only came around when he said something stupid and she shook her head at him, trying to hide her teeth but failing miserably.
she wore glasses but only when she was doing work or when she had a headache because she thought that her eyes looked too wide in them and all she ever wanted in life was to be people magazine's definition of pretty—which she wasn't (but don't tell her that.) she drank tea on sleepless nights, sitting on her porch and stargazing; she thought that ma
six steps to fixing youstep one
cry. scream. bang your fists against the walls
that keep you locked inside.
kick your feet in the air. tell your sister she's stupid
and wrong and that you've never loved her.
cry. scream. apologize via him to you.
let your tears catch on your lashes
until you can no longer see anything but your own
demise. taste the bitterness left in
your mouth from your own bitching and rot in it.
break a mug. break two. kick
the pieces around the kitchen floor and cry some more.
break a plate. break a cup. break a bowl.
break a finger because nothing can take away this
sort of pain. you are empty and yet
you are filled with so much anger.
break a razor and paint pictures across your skin.
you are okay, you tell them.
you break three days later and you lie
in bed, unable to move.
start picking up the pieces. clean up the mess
you've made and he's left.
use windex to polish off the dirt and
the giving up of the old gods (for what?)terrible
opium eater bird
reveling in visions from beyond
old gods cracked
give me human hands
pulsating wish in the abandoned night.
but here i am,
music's subsonic mating call,
sorry i cannot
enter the forest of negative space,
cannot leave this
without looking back nervously
keeps me stitched to the fringes
and i dreamed and i dreamed
of replacing the warmth accumulated
with ineptitude, i dreamed of slipping
onto the shank and unlatching the cellar door for
the crashing down of a cold awkward night.
is it still ahead? is it time
to lower my shield, a limbless knight,
show my eyes?
black and white, an inhuman
obsolescence in lacea week after you left me, i cleaned the bathroom
in lingerie. or at least, i like to remember that i did. it seemed appropriate
at the time: an exercise in pointlessness, a reminder. to remember myself here, a seam fraying
between worlds: to turn my map of living over by its roots, open the atlas
grief left behind.
before i was brave enough to pronounce want, i did it
like this: in furtive visits to retail dressing rooms, choosing
my clothes by picturing the way they would unwrap
in your hands, fall like fabric chrysalidae--imagining that, by the time they were gone,
i would be changed. to place these satin consonants
to the blooming language of flesh, an alphabet
of intention. for you, i promised myself,
i would become a poet before i could speak.
(and remember, now. this honest treason
of blood and void; the beast and the machine
trading skeletons in the dark. i
And There Was Lighti.
He was seventeen when he died.
I never went to the funeral
but I walked past it the day of
the service. His mother
was in the backseat of a blue Dodge,
door open, head in her hands.
"My baby," she kept repeating.
"My baby." It would go from sobbing, to
screaming, to a soft whisper that
I could only hear being carried
on the wind.
It was a Wednesday afternoon that they found
his old red pickup truck parked
out front of Slim's, two beer bottles in
the back and the windows cracked to let the stale
I heard that his dad told the police he was
gonna take that old truck and fix it up, because
he had promised his son before—
because it's always in the before—
And in the after, his mother never had dry eyes
and I'm pretty sure my mom told me
that she saw his dad at the bar every night,
drinking his sorrows down because some people can't
handle the stress.
Some people can't figure out why their son would
"Some men just want to w
bleeding wateryou're eleven when he tells you
he loves you
but that he loves her more
because the ribbon looks nicest in her hair
and you think you can understand
because, really, she has great hair
but he kisses her and not you
and you feel like your life is over
and your mom laughs and tells you it'll be okay
because you were only eleven
but it doesn't make it hurt any less
you're only eleven when you realize
your heart is just a touch more tender
than most peoples.
you're twelve years old when you
start to really feel different
start to grab the skin around your
thighs and pull away when he
tries to do it
you're twelve years old when
you think about death
you're thirteen when you think you
might be in love with your best friend
because she makes you feel safe
when no one else can
you're still thirteen and feeling different
has turned into feeling sick
and you cry to yourself in the mirror, watching
your reflection bleed water from its eyes
as if you're watching a movie because
it's you but you ca
a family portraiti.
my father is an electric guitar.
he spends most of his time displayed on the wall,
shining when the light hits him just so,
hovering in the perfect spot.
he is not new, but neither is he old--
used so rarely, he would gather dust
if he were not kept so pristine.
the only music i’ve ever heard him play is
read off a page of inky black notes,
perfectly following the italicized instructions,
i never understood the words,
but they nestled in my psyche anyway.
i always thought he would be better if the instructions
were tossed away
and he was played instead of displayed,
his strings singing the wordless tune
of a mouth that knew what it would say
if it only had a voice.
my mother is a little black book,
filled cover to cover with tiny, illegible handwriting.
there are notes scribbled in her margins,
lists of wishes both practical and fantastic placed in columns,
some crossed off, some forever untouched.
she has handm
we promised not to cry.you cut yourself
with the burnt out
ends of cigarettes,
and drown yourself
inside of my eyes,
because i cannot help
when did you become
just another mess
of strong liquor and
that we'd stay by each other
even with the face of Hell
clawing down our throats.
i want to shake you and scream
that it does get better.
it does and it will and
it always will, you foolish
child. i love you.
i say this
because you are my heart
and how can a woman live
without blood in her veins?
hey newton, gravity's flawedi.
starting anew from the flutter
and the sputter of lungs.
a vacant sea filled with feathers
and tumultuous clatter,
ribs in a treacherous pattern
resembling exiting rungs.
i want to wrestle the angels,
your tendency is the ladder.
involved with full indiscretion,
trading lazy for lace.
unspool the curse of the long-
limbs in a languorous flexion
i like the stab of the ankles,
you need the curves intersected.
opting to cull my extents
with trans-dimensional vigor.
spent my dysphoric corrections
on reconnecting lax ends.
lips in a spurious accent
feign a passionate rigor.
i tie myself to the anchor,
you extricate and ascend.
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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