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denial and uglier aftermathi drink to you, raising my glass and
choking down the things you left,
ignoring my gag reflex and waiting
on the buzzing in my head, white cotton
lullabies for the weak of heart.
it kills me that we are just a
collection of vignettes, that soon
i might see your blossom fingers
and bleeding sunset smile but
only as a memory gone static with neglect;
this summer, i became a rebel. a
martyr in a child’s game, a vagrant
with boxes of dead poetry to call
a home, and when i asked you to want me,
it’s only so you’d take the sanity and consciousness
with you when you left. i miss
the days when personality disorders
were not graceful.
do you even remember taking me to the moon?
you were so fucking tripped out on acid
and weed and love and other drugs
that you thought we were a portrait.
midnight blues and sober grays
breaking even for a story,
but every planet we landed on
was already dead.
and trust me, i know you wish life was
a one night stand, because you
Hunger PainsIt begins with a bang.
I forget to eat for a few months and
I drown in cheap ideas with pretty names,
the ones they fill books and barren wrists
and stormy heads with, and soon,
moonlight shines from inside
my ribs and I am a lighthouse.
Thank you for the things you gave me,
intrinsically, a knowledge of
how to properly wear
myself. Thank you
for not fixing me.
I used to write about the color
of your voice, always blue-- the sky
before I fell asleep and the morning
dragging me back; I wonder
that you could’ve loved me better
if you explained who the
Something was that shared your bed
at night, or why insincere words
were your favorite.
My poems still cling to my skin
even when I sleep. even when
I wake, an anchor. even when
I boil myself alive and unfold
like a pallid lily inside your
and after enough time,
I forget to say goodbye.
I pick the scabs on my hips,
kiss the sorry out of your smile,
and breathe like this air
isn’t already a million years old.
a different explorationwe talk about
astrology and ex lovers. the raspberries
dying in the heat, the way the water
bit our skin, the homeless man set out
to buy California, the center of our universe,
you. that feeling labelled “blah,”
and the notion I am not my own.
we leak questions
like overrun rivers, excess spillage,
draining curiosities about that tragic skeleton
balled up beneath your clothes.
and for you,
I’d travel the length between heartbeats,
shallow and vain like your promises,
your liquid eyes.
above all, we were lucky.
miracle children. one in ten,
one in a million, a pair of stragglers
in seven billion exempt from
clarity and unclaimed skin.
I know this guy who had
sorry lips and scars down his spine
without a story. we didn’t have
a thing to say so we talked about
how the stars were our newest horizon,
the undefined, and how we’d escape to them
PSit's come to this-- definitions
of memories and people and dreams
I’ll never know firsthand like reasons for living;
this realization that I
am a stagnant planet, lost
on its orbit home; this
search for a justification
to keep on breathing ocean
when my lungs won’t tolerate
salt. I woke today in the water
to angels swimming around my feet;
coral, pearlescent anchors dragging me
down, down, sweetly lullabying
about you, dear, and the day
the tides washed you away.
you are written in my skin
as much as the lies I live by
daily. you are the beautiful things:
the sun waking up in the morning, the
stars pitying at me as I try to fall asleep.
the watercolor sky sighing, the
virgin clouds crying, the last note
suiciding itself into silence.
on becoming alivethank god for sleeping pills
and the man who gave me a bag
to quiet my mind.
thank god for boys with open hands
and curious minds and naïve hearts
who make me young because
god, you birthed me old
you birthed me old,
so I could be the one to
measure the livelihood of stars
while the others made
their childhood wishes
thank god I have a mind
that runs a million miles faster
than I ever could, because
I believe my heart is an hourglass
of honey and grime, and
I’m slowly running out of
time, and I fear
these days are numbered.
thank god for people
who write the words bleeding in my heart
without knowing I exist, thank god
for beauty and my understanding
that I only exist in relation to it
and in appreciation of what
I can’t become.
thank god for my rebirth
because I spent all those
eye-opening years of my life
sleeping behind the wheel, thank god
someone was there to wake
me up. (thank god that I can
weep for happiness and depression
in the same day,
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
Actualitywhen I was young, I wanted
to be a punk rocker
metal holes lining my body like
trophies of war, hair teased
and bleached and styled for hours
on end until it looked effortless,
inked up with words and symbols
I swore were profound with
a cigarette hanging lazily
from my fingers, lonely
for a reason
(and he told me, sweetie,
you are like a fucking eclipse,
the bloody dawn
God plagued us with
I always wondered
if mistakes understood
the reason they
came to be in this world
I guess not).
deconstructing in your sighsi
it’s not like they said it would be easy.
when you look at me
open-mouthed and dewey-eyed,
negligent; and your laughter
slurs together like runoff sewage,
and your voice is drowning in
a certain kind of sadness, the one
reserved for the faults
we never asked for; and you sigh,
heavy, like I am back sitting in
your throat between your adam’s apple
and the truths you dare not speak;
you pity me.
it’s that very same weakness which
delivered me naked and trembling
into the skin of a person
I never was; pity
does not require action, disappointment
does not take away from the burning human need
to overcome oneself. I’m sick of living
tomorrow regretting the person I am today;
I drained her all out in a fit of desperation,
and filled myself through with vodka giggles
and scribbled lines and you, darling, you,
who fears nothing but the skeleton girl
sleeping quietly in your closet.
on how I need youtoday is a six-word story:
I’m tired of waking up
I will peel back your
every insecurity and anxiety
and watch them fall to the floor
like vodka petals, regurgitated mosaics,
I will see you naked and
reborn and you will break apart
into passive aggressive poetic
dedications and unsent letters and
I will hate and love you
for the very same reasons and
I will move on.
we're all drunk and always have beenno
i haven't felt smaller than this before
and it could be
because i don't breathe poetry in
and out -
and out -
i write it under my eyebrows
with the precision
of a drunk sniper
toasted into admission
with irony s-st-tutter-ering
down his throat.
you wouldn't take a damned bullet for me.
beautiful is a word kept
for the rise
of her tidal chest,
not my shallow breath,
not my sunset, heartfelt,
i would have disappeared
between your accusing index and
neglected thumb -
don't you feel calmer?
i haven't felt smaller than this
i haven't felt smaller than this before
and it could be
because you found a home between
her stroking index and
comforting thumb -
i haven't forgotten,
no, i still remember
now twenty two penumbrae in the past
didn't stop me
in one of several crevasses
at the bottom of your oceanic mind;
you may have forgotten,
and slept in
on the details,
but i haven't,
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.
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
slowly, and then all at onceand for once, he slips on his wedding ring, to cure the monotony. it slides over his knuckle, a perfect fit, and in the morning release of sunlight the silver gleams at him. it glares, calling him a liar: she is not a whorehouse and you are too broke to own her, you harlot, you. he buttons up, tucks in his shirt tail, and buckles his belt. the clinking of metal parts is the only sound in the room besides the dusting of her breathing beside him. and when he's gone, the only thing he leaves behind are the bruises on her collarbone.
you find him because you're lonely, (well, it's actually the opposite.) he finds you because his wardrobe is black and his shoes are scuffed and he asks you where your castle is. you're the only princess he sees 'round here. the rain soaks into his shirt and he curses it, grinning. and damn girl, you follow him, because you think you see some kinda warmth in his ice blue eyes.
it takes you days t
beliefshumming a tune that rattled her bones as though she were a bottle of pills, she counted all the times she'd been a burden in her life. she figured it equaled nothing less than her number of breaths. laying in bed and surrounded by pillows, she tried to quiet the sound; but her body betrayed her. "you can't hide behind a closed mouth," her guts moaned, and she huddled into herself to silence them.
when she walked, it was with a careful precision she'd developed from balancing on ledges in her dreams. night after night, she withstood the trembling of her aching frame. like a ship being tossed, her bones creaked under the strain of the storm inside her. she wondered how long she could keep it restrained.
the only calm she'd ever tasted was the center of the storm; and now she felt her own hurricane twisting the wilderness within. she found her beliefs, the redwoods of her being, uprooted with the abruptness of a fitful toddler tossing her head to the floor. it would hurt. it did hurt. but
From Mia, With Lovelast night i caught her with a finger so far down the back of her throat,
she pulled up her thoughts
into all the water
a refraction of light &
suspended until suddenly all the water in her head sloshes
(a faint inner ripple
as the pain leaks out her ears, her nose)
she was gasping to throw herself onto the next comma
she sinks or swims [the cliche, a baracuda, drags her down]
but if this was a love song
she'd hate it
because she's already written 46 on her hand
to remind herself she's only human & a weak gag reflex runs in her family
so walk straight in, my love
& sink to the bottom
six feet under these bulimic stars
because we're too afraid to fly in daylightjust when i thought i was home,
the welcome mat
turned to tacks beneath my feet.
i apologized for the blood
that crept into the cracks and stained your porch.
this isn't the redwood i had in mind;
but i think it's kind of beautiful,
in the same way
a moth can't find its way to the stars
from inside the garage so it
flicks its maddened wings to make a
ting, ting, ting
on a dying lightbulb.
"abyssus abyssum invocat,"
i whisper to the winged-dreamer
as she makes her way across my cheek.
i know she hears it as she
eases past my softly, parted lips.
ex glande quercus,
her wings thump morse code
against the rawness of my throat
and i swallow to quiet her pain.
hush, now shush. be still, my dear;
trees do not talk or bleed.
you've given your wings to grow with me
and we will reach the heavens.
we will be greater than the oaks
as our forest of hair plants us among the stars;
then, we will be home.
hitched to the sky
with the veins of your wings
and stuck with the red of
CopenhagenLet’s meet again in an alternate universe
where your eyes are brown and I dyed my hair black
because I hated being a natural blue.
I’ll teach you to play guitar
and you’ll show me how to fly,
scholars caught in an intellectual love affair,
a tandem bike going nowhere.
I’ll know you by the gentleness
of your fingertips and you’ll need
no identifier but the slant of my handwriting,
because, world to world, some things don’t change.
Autumn was my first love.October, I follow you -
from the magic lights of New York
to moonshines in Georgia,
until the colors dissolve.
The anxious poetry of autumn
made a memory of me.
Here’s to things I take for granted:
country road thunderstorms.
Unspoken words, unwritten ideas.
October, I follow you;
I thought I saw you on the shore
where the river runs through gold
on the last boat leaving the city of a hundred spires -
or perhaps Pittsburgh
(it was the lights I guess).
Here’s to the things we leave behind:
sunbeams in November,
letters addressed to no one,
poems, wounds, dead birds.
I’ve got that summertime sadness.
Maybe you’re gonna come back;
we’re changing our ways, taking different roads
and loneliness knows me by name
but October, I follow you;
without you I’m a winter heart,
a love story you don’t want,
a November shade of grey hunting ghosts
in cities that sleep inside our heads.
You told me you lied the night you kiss
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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