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NaPoWriMo: Day 9More respect
for hungry lions,
doesn’t want to write this poem.
As she forgets how to use words
(on most days,)
relying on curses
like casting some witch's spell-
with only ten dollars to her name.
The oldest daughter:
she’s still somewhere in the middle,
because they had no other way
to categorize her.
Getting her first gravestone at three-
not to the gods,
but to the lily stargazers
in her palms.
she would become a bird,
& never come back.
She doesn’t want her death
laid out like a fast-food
how does she begin to explain
cultivating in her breastbone?
NaPoWriMo: Day 10 Have you ever been so cold, Sweetheart,
your knees q u a k e d like that Jenga piece
that buckled just before your whole foundation
& no matter
how many times
I've restarted your heart,
one would think
I'd grow tired,
I'm still writing you in poetry
(in the most inappropriate of places.)
You forced yourself beneath my blades
& my fingertips,
Licking unstable knees,
you were death on my tongue:
angry apricot eyes, unforgivable sin
scaring my limbs &
haunting my dreams.
& I'd still try to save your fucking life.
NaPoWriMo: Day 8I was told
to slice through the thickest
of scar tissue this evening.
Let all my inner demons
fall to the floor
& write them out
in my own black blood.
It’s not red anymore,
even though needles
& the bruises
laid out like war-lands
on my arms
I don’t think it ever was,
My mind is a mess
of free versed insecurities,
cat’s eye marbles,
& untamed forest fires-
I still don’t have the nerve
to slice open my skin
& bleed for her.
binge eatingi have a buildup
of black holes
suffocating my arteries,
having swallowed down
the bitter taste of too many
girls with galaxies traveling
the length of their spines.
i ate them in mouthfuls,
gaping & sad like a binge
reaching for the skies-
unable to hold them all in.
i don’t think the universe
is as vast
as it used to be,
of my ribs;
i am hungry.
& with a collection
of moon sighs
as a reminder
in my pockets,
i will just have to learn
how to calm this swollen
I'm talking myself in circles,I screamed,
"There is nothing
wrong with me, not a damn
I wanted to believe
the big dipper on my arm
meant something more
than sun marks & kisses.
But, how can I trust words
that slip through my teeth
as easy as breathing
when this star
has only ever learned
how to f
NecromancyShe thinks there are nebulae
in the rough of my gutter bones,
some stargazing sanctuary
for lonely outcasts to lay their heads.
I am but a car crash,
& red inked corrections
on crosshatched skin.
Made up of moans,
the clutching of bedsheets;
I am contemplating
ripping my ribs apart
I never had a heart at all.
But my moon shy love;
she is determined
to try & wake the dead.
9729 kilometers away, to be exact.i have these bones like flowers-
fragile and finely plucked,
these lily stargazers
are kissing ocean beds,
making love to sirens
for a taste of her
i want to tape maps to my limbs-
throw caution to the wind
as i gather up
every love letter receipt,
from every false attempt
i ever wrote her
& forget for just a moment
that even still
she does not love me.
RelapseIt’s like counting
along your limbs -
remembering a time
‘just one more’
made you feel better.
- & you’re sitting there
Draco, stuck in limbo
always looks like he’s
to the starsI’ve got this arrow
curled around my finger
like Apollo’s heart
& your nicknames
engraved on the inside
of my lungs.
I don’t want to write
pretty little stanzas
or pick at the seams
of your poetry
like some deadbeat
psychology major -
I want to
all over everything;
shoot down your moon
& wear her
like a charm
around ink stained
I want to
to the stars,
& leave you there.
For every boy I ever kissedi.
you took my hand 'neath the magnolia
at a christmas dinner party I held.
your mouth was cold. so were my affections.
you were the first man to listen to me.
i let you listen to my heartbeat; but
when the day fell away, you bruised me deep.
you were my safe harbour, and i your storm
turning your misery to naught but air
but i squirmed away from your tongue, repulsed.
you were my cradle, when i couldn't sleep
you would hold me close and pray for something,
anything, to keep me safe. (it was you).
eleven months spent sleeping with my phone,
i still couldn't believe when you kissed me
even after midnight struck us again.
i don't miss those guitar-player fingers
you wrapped me 'round. i loved enough for you
until i realised you didn't love me.
we fell into our love by accident
and like one, there were some fatalities
when you said you loved me using her name.
opposites attract. i fell hard for you.
you kissed me in starlit castle ruins.
My brittle bones turn
into pencil lead
and etch and ache against me.
I break open my elbow
and scrawl onto the walls
with the charcoal beneath.
a cave drawing of my end
onto a blistered skin
of plaster and mortar.
I rub blackened bone
to make sparks flutter
and bounce across the brickwork
MutantHear me read it
I am a mutant.
| My skin does not sallow in the sun
and I do not blush jaundice through my cheeks.
| I do not have extra fingers, or toes -
although my spine;
it boasts an ironic vertebrae,
it is a long tally of the hearts I have broken
and when I straighten my spine the bones Pop out of place.
I am out of place.
| I do not have a super power,
I lack exceptionality in all but my ordinariness.
| there is a vengeful bacteria feasting -
on my shoulder places;
two-fifty an hour.let me save you the trouble:
because what i'm trying to say is
i'm not a good person.
i don’t tell valerie about how i planned to rekindle
my friendship with charlie’s best friend last year
just so i could get to him and hurt him.
(i don’t tell her how, in the end, i ended up liking
his friend instead, and charlie dated another
fifteen year old
because shit happens and what was i doing,
expecting things to go my way?)
there are certain things she doesn’t need to know,
certain things i can’t say because
putting it into words what it was like waking up,
that sort of shame that came with it –
it was like – it was like looking into a window
and swearing there’s a monster behind it
before, slowly, i realized
it was a mirror.
what therapy promises me: love yourself, forgive but
never forget, tell us your past
then let it go.
what i learn in therapy: nobody has all the answers.
we certainly don’t.
This Ugly, Beautiful WorldI took a school trip to Europe this summer.
To be honest, I don't remember much of it anymore. It's all a blur of rushing through crowded streets and cramped bus rides and crowds of foreign languages. When I look at the pictures, in fact, I can't seem to recall taking most of them. I can't even tell what some of them are supposed to be.
Our first stop was Paris, France.
I hated it there. It was dirty. Smelly. Crowded. Disgusting. Wherever we found ourselves, disdain was the only courtesy that was shown to us by those who called the City of Light their home. It didn't even matter that I loved each inch of history that was told to us by our guide - I just wanted to go home and get away from the squirming, teeming atmosphere that clung to me like fog on a rainy day.
We spent three days in Paris.
The first day is nothing but a fractured, bone-weary mess in my mind that consists of walking and walking and eating and walking and listening and walking and walking. The second day is simply bit
Pretty Blue PillsPretty blue pills,
shiny in my palm,
the ticket to my peace,
to my eternal calm.
They're so perfectly round,
and soon they'll be in me.
The closest to perfect
that I'll ever be.
They go down so smooth.
Five, ten, fifteen and twenty.
Soon I'll be gone.
Twenty-five and Thirty.
That should be enough,
but I'll play it safe.
Thirty-five and forty.
Now I have no more to take.
The bottle is empty,
as empty as I feel.
None of this is happening,
too good to be real.
But soon I start to drift
into a dark unknown fog.
Somewhere quite distantly.
I hear a muffled sob.
But I blow it off as fake.
Nobody could possibly care.
I doubt anyone's noticed
that I'm no longer there.
But then I hear my name,
just a distant call.
I feel myself lift higher.
No! I want to fall!
I ignore the voice in earnest,
but it's calling me up, up, up.
Please let me be.
That life was too tough.
I like this fog,
this numbing haze,
free from the ridicule,
from the judging gaze.
But inevitably I come up,
eyes open so slight.
WhoreI thread a vein out through a scalpel notch;
and use it as a ribbon to present my heart to you.
I cough a little spare blood. I didn't need it.
I lick the copper from my silenced subterfuge mouth
and it reminds me of the prostitution of my soul
as I pour myself over other men's empty hands
in the dying hope that someone might hold on.
I smear my wrist against a digital canvas and cry;
I give it all to you freely, and nothing in return.
You smile. I break. You hear but you don't listen;
you just throw another single penny for my thoughts.
Broken Sleep, Red LipstickI am only an insomniac when it rains. The pitter patter of the raindrops reminds me of the pitter patter of cat paws.
(He liked to sleep at my feet when I could barely think, just to make me feel better. I think you used to tell him to.)
I wish I could wrap your memories around my spine and wear them as a backbone, because they are stronger than the arch my broken spined back seems to have developed of late.
(Spines are oddly brittle, and a lot like wrists. Easy to break and forever to heal.)
But I cannot depend of any of that anymore. So I wear red lipstick and high heels and go to parties and tell strangers how amazing they are to be wearing red lipstick and high heels and how different they must be to come to this party instead of the other one.
(All because you would hate parties and think nightlife is so stupid.)
It is what I do with my insomnia. Because my spineless back, the memories of you incessantly looped in my sleeplessly addled brain and the raindrops
If you drink enough vodka it tastes like loveHe’d whisper sweet nothings to trees
Hoping the roots would remember his name
I watched him drop pieces of himself like bread crumbs
His lantern limbs quivering
I don’t think he ever really knew how lovely he was
And on a sunny day when the pavement was sweating
Out onto the roadside
Everyone else found out too
I don’t think I’ll ever forget him because he was like a dream catcher
So quiet and magical in the way his eyes turned green in the dark
And blue in the winter
Like he stored the world’s secrets behind his cuckoo spit heart
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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