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i remember the day you ripped you chest open, and let me peer inside at the darkness and the water rising up to settle in the crook of you neck. you had scribbled it down in notebooks, and i'd heard you howling at 3am when the walls were closing in on you. somehow we both thought running from it was the best solution, never wanting to see it in its full figure, scared it might take me with you. or you with me.
you poured it out in waves, crashing and subsiding but never stopping. i sat, stiller than i'd ever sat before, my hands hovering over your shoulders trying to figure out how to comfort you. how to place my hands on you in such a way that i might be able to keep you together, stop you from splitting open or unraveling. you said you were going face your demons, look them in the eye and tell them to do their worst, do their best to destroy you.
i guess you thought that they couldn't do anything worse than you had done to yourse
tipping scalesshe was never one to hold her breaths. and that was only because believing in lungs made her feel short of breath, and anyone else she told that to, carefully placed her in hypothetical white padded cells that were called "away" before "reality" began coming in stores. her mind was wired differently, synapses weren't arranged biologically, more hung life fairy lights, illuminating stories and memories that made her heartbeat quicken. they told her that she needed to be more "normal" and to get her precious head out of the clouds, but they made her breathe easy, and "normal" was an insult.
they gave her little pills that they said were 'stabilizing', and they made her eyelids heavy, but her head became light like a balloon with too much air and she become confused and disorientated. she found she liked confusion, it made the colours different and the white coats shut up for a little longer. they told her of numbered waist sizes and pants that she needed to fit in but her com
alas, i cannot swim.and you over thought things. you stared at the concrete, and the cars, and the way the light reflected off the passing green car. you imagined how it would feel if it hit you. they're just thoughts though, right? nothing more. you tell yourself, "everyone thinks these things sometimes."
you take an extra long sip from your coffee cup, seeing if you can wash your thoughts away.
you spill your coffee on your shirt. a chain reaction, a subtle change of scenery; you don't exactly know what to conclude from this event. you reach into your pocket to pull out your white handkerchief, only it's red now. your hand is bleeding. you don't remember this happening, but then again, you don't remember much of anything. you make your way towards the stretch of the city. you try to let its stomach swallow you whole. is this you? are you growing old? you can't tell if you're dotted with dandelions or soaked up in the city's sweat. you are no longer the man you thought you were, & this can only mea
just say so.I learned the other day what people mean when they say that you don't stop hurting, don't stop feeling the sting of grief, you just learn to deal with it. You adjust to it and it becomes normal after a while.
It still kicks me in the chest and I have to catch my breath. I heard your song in the supermarket Tuesday afternoon and I dropped the bread. I didn't even notice until someone started humming it and I asked myself to please not cry in the middle of the bakery aisle and at least wait until I was outside. I made it to the car. And I broke and it was hard to remember that had forgotten for so long.
But I wished it had stayed forgotten.
cause I miss you again and now I'm back where I started and feeling more defeated than ever.
Untitledshe measured time in an entirely unique way. like it takes her a whole packet of lifesavers to get home
from school, or it takes one and a bit episodes of friends for her nails to dry enough to touch things.
likewise, she knew the ways to cure her bodies individual aches, chamomile tea, two sugars will cure
a headache, and the blue candles her mother gave her last christmas can shake a panic attack out
from the cracks and dust it under the rug for a little longer.
but soon there were aches and pains that were new, and she didn't know how to erase or subside.
no tea or scent or even musical men could heal it, and it stuck in her throat and she had to think of
new ways to make it familiar. she came up with descriptions for each of the knots in her chest,
and drew dots on her skin with a permanent marker detailing the origins and where to apply pressure
to break them up, like fluid buildup. she would eventually make them permenant, when
muteit’s two in the morning somewhere
where it’s quiet except for breathing
that’s loud enough to hear from here.
convince yourself you’re alive;
you’re the only one that can.
here is a game we played as children:
we pretended language was something only
to be seen on paper,
we make-believed the worst injury
we could get was those made by
trees and rocks while our bones weakened
under the attacks we tried to endure
of words like, “fat” (before
we even knew how much we weighed)
or “stupid” (before
we even realized that it
doesn’t matter what 9 times 8 is
as long as no one figures out you don’t know.)
sticks and stones may break our bones
don’t tell me words don’t do any damage.
don’t tell me you don’t think of yourself as a weapon
every time you open your mouth,
don’t tell me what exactly you think of me,
don’t tell me anything, i think you’ve said enough.
let’s just be silent,
she sees his plane in the oceani shed layers of feeling in ink and words like a rain-soaked coat but my heavy head doesn't feel any lighter
i keep waking up in the morning but the sun doesn't seem to shine any brighter
i can't control the world can't save you just nightmares and waiting and worry
the days become nights become weeks become months -- since when did my life get so blurry?
i keep my heart in a box beneath the bed where we slept, all the memories lay undisturbed
there's a book full of lyrics and tunes of the songs that without you, id never have heard
there's a scar on your head from when they tried to defeat you, it's so easy to see it now
you still reach for your curls with your trembling hands, i wish i could stop them from shaking somehow
years have passed since they gave me the letter, and i find myself waiting for you
you might open the door with a smile on your face, and tell me that none of it's true
my doorstep grows ever colder while the seasons wear down the wood
i know you would wa
i writei write for the feeling of maybe-kind-of-acceptance
because everywhere else i look, i feel lost in myself.
and there's the haze of a bonfire i shouldn't of gone to,
filling my mind with things i thought i'd pushed away
(but apparently i didn't
because the smoke in my lungs -
it brought it all back).
i write because maybe once someone will read it
and maybe just once i'll have accomplished something
meaningful. but of course i crammed for that test
and failed at the last minute but who cares right
(since it's not like
i've ever been good enough
i write in hopes of being able to stay stable long enough
that my internal fractures won't shatter me like broken mirrors.
when the one day i actually feel okay enough to smile,
the effort was washed back down the drain by your cruelty
(but, you know, it's
okay because i've learnt now
that you live only to die).
Mid-month momentsthings i have done today:
crawled out of bed, hands
& knees scuffing carpet, collecting
dust encrusted memories in
lost myself in the
shower, soul wandered off
up the exhaust chute
& left me staring at
broke my dam over lamb
& chips, salt on salt until my lips
puckered under the assault and
your name came tumbling
autumnmy body thrives on the migration of
tree limbs and human hearts -
a golden fist clenches onto modicum
entrails, thrusting pollen up my throat
and into the air you breathe.
Vitiatei am a phantom,
smoking hallowed satyrs
into my helium head;
you're plucking amber teeth
from between the jaws of eden
Celestewe'll kiss hell's palms like
before we give sermons tonight;
pacing scaffolds, we long
to wake immaculate -
small musingpeople are always so
sad about caged birds
the fish in the bowl?
the nature of the soul?
the arrow and the bow?
the turtle, a slave to his shell
never running, always hiding-
walls, small devils and taut strings.
i am not so sad about the bird
in the cage.
what i am most sad about is
the look on my own face when i heard
you said you wanted me out
of your life for good.
i am a slave to old
grudges and i am
too proud to
apart.and I was sitting in the gutter
after trying for the fourth night in a row
to drown you along with
all my other ghosts
and the church
was across the street
cross lit up high in the sky
and it felt
like the complete
opposite of salvation.
it was 4am
and with the neon blue
shining in my eye line
i realised i was alone
i was utterly alone
in the saddest way possible.
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^Nyx-Valentine arrived in our community and started whipping everyone into a frenzy with her relentless desire to bring the Artistic Nude and Fetish galleries to the fore. 9 years later, and it's safe to say that Nyx is not only a leader as a photographer in these galleries, but she has also established herself as a much saught after model. ^... Read More