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confessionalthey say sad girls change their hair color
and forgive their monsters.

i change my morals
and become one.

slingshot words.there are a million worlds living in your head
begging to be wrapped around your tongue and released like a slingshot
into the heart of some stranger you may never meet.

001 i am a whirlwind of
bruised knees
(purple)

an aching heart
(dark blue)

twisted guts
(red)

&
a regret that could
crumble mountains.
(green-green-green)

bad days.on my bad days,
i open notebooks like bibles and hold pens like lifelines.
i keep opening the book of my memories
just to see if it still leaves a bruise.
tonight,
i am covered in the bruises of your hand
tonight,
your ghost is in my bed. i can't sleep there,
so again-
again i find myself miles from home
wishing on stars i can't see
and spitting memories into the ocean like watermelon seeds.
i sit on my longboard like driftwood and send my shivers into texts
like letters i never should have mailed.
on my bad days,
i wear cuts like ropeburn,
like i just don't know when to let go.
i get lost inside the sadness and hold tea thats long since gone cold
as hours escape like small birds set free.
i forget to open the blinds
and paint my fingernails black
and stare at the too-big numbers aligned on the scale i can't stop stepping on.
my th

eight things that hurt more than a broken boneone,
i have never had broken bones,
but i imagine it would snap,
splinter, pierce my skin.

i imagine it would be
the pieces i cannot put back together
scratching their way out of
this body bag.

i imagine my demons would
not rest until my arms are torn
by the claws of my inside.

i'd imagine broken bones
would not hurt as much
as broken confidence,
conviction, trust.

two,
her faith.
(my lack of it.)

three,
fluctuating positions in life.
the backbone of a dreamer
who finds nightmares her companion,
the fingertips of a mother,
pressed against feverish foreheads.
the lips of a teenage girl,
forgetting what truth sounds like.

four,
bones h

Untitledthings she's destroyed this year;
two washing machines
from the pockets she fills with rocks
when the rains come and she wants to drown
the corners of all her books from flicking
bending and shaking edges
whenever she thinks of you
you stupid boy
her first car
crumpled in a ravine
and it left a scar on her stomach
that she sometimes can poke
and feel a lump that science can't explain
and she thinks it physical sadness
resting
waiting
the entire box of plates
that her mother gave her for moving out
and making it on her own
well, she almost made it
but something about them
being under the ground left
her shaking uncontrollably
and the tears slid underneath fingertips
and she lost the grip
and didn't notice until she'd ran to phone
and left a trail of her insides
along the corridor.
her heart lines
or whatever it is that lets the happiness in
they're sealed shut
tight and all she can do is
stare
at things that don't notice her
whatever it was that connected him
and her
and let the sparks

pressure.she was cracked in places only she could feel, and where the blood could only be tasted, and not seen.
her lips, fingertips and inside her chest. she learned that there are certain body parts prone to being cut or bruised, and her white laced knees could attest to that. but there comes a time when cutting your leg on the coffee table or pinching your stomach with your belt buckle, isn't an accident anymore. its something more, and you know it is. but you can go so long without ever admitting it to yourself, and even longer for anyone else.

lukewarmshe had the kind of voice
that seemed to be stuck
in the hour of four o'clock
in the morning - soft
and tired and luring,
mumbling her way through
subways and tunnel lights
all pale yellow with noise.

there was tea and long baths
and longer absences,
hiccups of breath
the best
she could do.
long springs and
longer falls,
one equinox to the next
and still the bad
was never that bad
and the good
was never that
good,
and she continues to hum
the birds continue to sing
the apples continue to
grow and
sour and
fall,

and bury themselves
again.

stuck to the back of my throat.yesterday i saw you in cracks of my staircase
and inbetween the pages of my class novel.
you look like hell, and i thought the
darkened circles under your eyes
resembled the colour i think my
love for you would probably be.
its saddening that the thick oxygenated
purple and red mix is kind of like
what i saw once one one
of those anti smoking commercials
spilling forth from a dissected lung.
thats what you are.
you're my personal cancer.

i would say my father is a wari would say my father is a war horse but that is a failed symbol
because he has been dragged through the dirt as many times as this metaphor

i want to write in abstract like in a book of
contemporary poetry i bought over the summer;
it was all syllables and lines of 'talk talk talk' repeated over and over
i want to write something that describes how i feel without saying a word that describes it -
like:
dust and ache and tired and bone and overflowing and lonely and fuck and .

i want to write poems that have meaning without being cliche i want poems
that defy grammar and space and time because when someone reads them, they become me

white noise.sometimes i turn off the greasy yellow lights and run the water lava hot.
the quiet porcelain is an untouched coffin
familiar as the look in your eyes.
i can hear my heart beat in my ears
and i stare at the ceiling until it darkens and blurs at the edges.
my body is heavy as lead
i cannot remember the weight of movement.
sometimes the closest i can get is the suicide between each breath
and the apology unspoken on the inhale.
my skin is a ladder i keep climbing,
i can see through the rungs to the fat cells that weigh down my bones.
sometimes,
my hand becomes his when it creeps uninvited over the landscape of my body
and across the staircase of my ribs.
i can't erase the feeling of his body pressed like a book
over my flower.
my head is white noise that bleeds red,
but i'm tired of all the blood.
tired of all the memories like channels
i keep flicking past.
sometimes i wonder if i cut enough slack in my skin,
&

32you were gone before it even sank in that you were really there.
habit is the worst thing, cause it made me so blind to the fact that you could
just as easily be snatched away from me.
i should have hugged you at least four more times
i've spent the better half of a year being your definition of evil and insane
at the same time. i've known better than everything i've done, but done it
anyway. god knows i've repeated the same tedious/dangerous/stupid
actions over and over wanting/expecting different results.
you wouldn't be proud of me for anything anymore.
but i'm still mad at you, i'm sure of it. if you waded through the
rising tides, or peeled away my blue like old house paint, you'd find something
that screams how you broke everything inside me. and how you were one single event
that taught me that just cause something ends, that doesn't mean its over.
and that i will waste every single change given to me.
the only thing you ever told me that i listened to, was to rest occasionally.

by association.don't shoot the messenger
she told herself
but her aim was unsteady
and the wind blew her off target
they were all rotten anyway.

unlovenot all self harm comes
in the obvious form of lines up arms or down thighs
of throwing up insides and self worth
into toilet bowls with the sounds
that make you wonder how you're not dead.
she picked at her lips constantly
cracking and splitting
peeling and bleeding
it stung
more than expected
and it bled
more than ever anticipated
even after she's been doing it all day
she drank her tea that was still steaming
still made her hands flinch from the
far too hot porceline
but she parted lips
and felt it force it way down
burning and splitting
her lips and throat
before settling
like molten in her
ash filled stomach
tiny fingers
pinching, squeezing
pulling on skin
making underneath it
burst
and bloom
her blood like water colour
exploding and spreading
and mixing over
thighs and stomachs
no-one thinks to notice
the bruises
they're accidental
right?

072i ached enough that day
to salt the atlantic ocean
three time over

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More from =ohsparrowsong

336.does it count as a sign
some grand
NOTICE THIS AND PAY ATTENTION
THE UNIVERSE IS TRYING TO HELP YOU
if its something you put there intentionally
and for this exact reason.
and when does divine intervention
become a fucking coincidence?

the city is my witness.there was a fire, in the pits of her stomach, filling her with warmth that wrapped around bones and flourished on her skin like war paint. it made her fight even when the rain was pouring down on her, like a shower of bullets. it was in there when she was sleeping, making sure that she continued to breath and not let anything take her away from the mission, the war that she was going to win.
she had baggage that was heavy, and she was starting to notice it more and more as the years started to change from a trickle to a hurricane force that was threatening to completely destroy her. oceans rising, the flames licking her ribcage, and bones creaking under weights that just kept growing as each month passed.
the flourishes on her skin were becoming darker and less like trophies and more like tiny deaths that she couldn't shake. there were places that were permanently discoloured, angry and sore. the fire gave way to tangled thoughts and a twisted stomach with a constant sinking feeling, a

10.april 10th.
i have lost this battle.
but oh
i am not losing this
mother fucking war.

this is not the time
or the fucking place
to die.

save yourself.i have been crying almost uncontrollably for several days now, and i am torn between love for everything you've
done and hate for the single thing you did. its not like i never saw this coming, i did. but fuck. nothing could ever have
prepared me for this. prepared my chest to be so utterly crushed in an instant. all of a sudden everything was swallowed up
by overwhelming sadness and i wanted so badly to blame you for everything, and just sink into nothingness, or drown it in a
few dozen bottles of anything i could get my hands on.
if you've given up, well so have i.

napowrimoapril 1st
i just sat there
words lodged in my throat
eyes burning with tears that
i wasn't going to let escape
while you broke
into pieces i couldn't fix.
april 2nd
you gave me stained fingertips
the same colour as your belly.
i still dont know if its from
your poorly rolled mentol's
or if its the colour of
the deepest regret
i've ever felt.
april 3rd.
i tried to write this poetically.
with oceans and stars
and metaphors
so large i lose
connection.
but i can't
some things just
aren't poetic.
april 4th.
you're body was
black and blue
but oh god
there was colour.
there was colour.
and colour means life.
right?
even if its clinging on
by its
fingernails.
april 5th.
i think i've broken
in half
two clean
separate parts
one determined to love.
the other begging to die.
april 6th.
'you're not in this alone'
yes.
yes i fucking am.
now go away.
april 7th.
can i please just
curl up
and cry this
all out
let it soak into
the sheets
and even if i
have to burn
everything
i will
cause i want this gon

90.it was always a god damned contest with you.
my bones were charcoal grey and too heavy
well yours were pitch fucking black and unbearably so
i couldn't breathe when someone said that one name
you literally did stop breathing.
i hit you.
you stayed still.
the white traveled even faster
than your hands did
to shove the bloody things
down your fucking throat.
and i blamed myself
and i hate you for that
you unbelievable bastard.

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Submitted: January 26
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calamity.

by =ohsparrowsong, Jan 26, 2013, 7:58:38 PM
Literature / Poetry / Emotional / Free Verse

_{the poor boy got a lecture from deaths secretary
"deaths busy enough as it is without walk ins"

"but it was urgent," he stutters.
"it couldn't wait, it was now or never"

he was simply told
"take a number, and wait over there with the rest
who 'couldn't wait' "}

calamity.by =ohsparrowsong

Literature / Poetry / Emotional / Free Verse

©2013 =ohsparrowsong

_{inspired
but random.}

~~joy 0 0~~

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~~neutral 0 0~~

Mood: Awestruck

*WithLove-FromMe Apr 9, 2013

whoa....
very nice. I like it. Especially the But it was urgent part.

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~violetense Feb 19, 2013 Student Writer

That was a shot right to the heart.
Amazing.

Reply

=ohsparrowsong Feb 19, 2013

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=SilverInkblot Feb 16, 2013 Hobbyist Writer

Hi there! Just a note to let you know that this piece has been featured in my journal: [link]

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=ohsparrowsong Feb 16, 2013

_{thank you <3}

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~azazelin Feb 1, 2013 Hobbyist General Artist

^{/takes number
who can actually get an appointment for these things?}

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=ohsparrowsong Feb 1, 2013

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!travelgirlxx Jan 29, 2013

I agree with

. Random, dark humour.

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=ohsparrowsong Jan 29, 2013

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*0hgravity Jan 27, 2013 Hobbyist General Artist

oh, I really like this.
some good dark humor, I'd say.

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