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003its easier to say
"i'm fine, just tired"
than explain the water rising
when really they just asked out of politeness
and don't -actually- care.
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
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
like molten in her
ash filled stomach
pulling on skin
making underneath it
her blood like water colour
exploding and spreading
and mixing over
thighs and stomachs
no-one thinks to notice
awake from my dream state.it was a leap of faith
but i wish someone had pushed me
so i had someone to blame
calamity.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' "
shallow breath, aching bones.this feeling is too big for me.
too giant for my small frame to contain
and its spreading and spilling out and
over my insides and leaving me waking
up with bruises from dreams so real
this feeling is too much for me.
i can't carry it all, it leave part of it
dragging alongthe ground behind
me and i tend to forget its there
and i trip over it and fall to ground.
i decided to collect bruises
but i dont have to look to far
they tend to seek me out
and scatter themselves across 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.
don't go if you've got more to sayand last night i saw you, the real you
the you that i had buried under layers and layers of
blues and greens
from trying to find something
that was almost you
but not quite.
and i didn't cry
i didn't shatter into a million stupid pieces
like you were a car with high beams
and i was a scared little deer.
cause i hadn't seen past this you i made up
for so fucking long.
but i remembered
that you didn't catch my attention at first.
but when you did.
i couldn't look away.
and i wish i had have stayed
with my eyes closed.
cause i was so proud of myself
for tearing my heart
away from you
and out of underneath your skin
or between your fingers
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 don't understand, but i don't need to.I feel like i don't give you the things that matter
i've always prided myself on my ability to conjure stories and
words and at the drop of a hat, and i've spun countless tales
about things that are out of my control and aches and ghosts
and that time we weren't us.
when it comes to you there's never enough.
never enough of anything; words, time or love.
because nothing is enough to sum this all up, and i feel that
this is the best feeling ever and it would lose something
if i could wrap it up in a sentence or a novel
and do it justice
thats what makes this so special
cause i used to think i understood myself
and that i knew i was all over the place and constantly running
to things i wasn't even sure existed.
but you slow me down to a pace where i can see the outlines
of trees and i can breathe again. i keep reaching to grab your
arms or hands or waist to make sure you're still there
cause i'm terrified you'll disappear.
but you're not.
and i'm not.
you should know that i'm not comfort
confessionalthey say sad girls change their hair color
and forgive their monsters.
i change my morals
and become one.
fast-forward through the goodbyesthis is the beginning of the end
“i know you,” he says.
and he looks defeated, he looks sad, he looks like
he's a boy who may one day realize how much
he cares for you, so you cut him off and say,
“minus all the secrets i don’t tell anyone.”
“well, yeah, minus those.”
“then you don’t know me at all.”
and then you tell him,
i love you. but you don’t use those words
because those are taboo. are jinxed.
are knock on wood three times fast.
instead you press him in a hug and say,
i’m sorry, knowing he won’t understand
that this is the first time you ever cared for something
enough to try and fix it after you hurt it.
you hope he doesn’t ever realize what you’re saying
and his response will always be ‘what for?’ because
if he figures out he loves you nothing changes.
he’s just going to be in love with a corpse, a memory,
a pair of trigger happy hands,
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.
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.
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,
why we cannot sleep at night.i.
we have grown so accustomed
to wearing our masks
we still wonder why
the night sky
is calling my name
and i find that
i cannot close my eyes
my corneas are stars
and i'm falling
rusted and fading,
forever switching owners
forever out of place
loneliness is a disease
the world is infected.)
water stainsmy father's silhouette painted on
the canvas of waves
assures me that
water stains are not permanent.
darkened fabric means nothing more than
the fruit of possibility spoiling on countertops.
i ask grown men for more answers
than there are chandeliers
in my parents' abandoned mansion.
the creases of my grandmother's forehead
skitter over concern and
land on laugh lines.
i've always been a clever joker,
spreading lips like a contagion.
they could never catch me;
my intoxicating serpent
slithering through sidewalk cracks
breaking backs as children do.
my limbs may have expanded,
but i am just a hot air balloon.
if there is anything
pavements & dark rooms have taught me,
it is that
broken means i'll be okay again.
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,
(my lack of it.)
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.
i cannot remember the last time i did.
knotted hair pulled out at the roots.
nail polish remover spilled into wounds.
lips chapped red.
burned at the stake
dying on a scaffold,
unable to speak.
numbers on the scale,
tick-tack-toe on my wrist.
every blistering insecurity
that sends me spiraling.
we are all waiting to be found.August 17, 2012
I met a girl five years ago on a train to Paris and she told me she was running away. I asked her why, and she said she didn't know why—just that she had lots of things in her life that would justify her escape.
She held a cup of coffee in her left hand and periodically, she'd inhale the steady steam and sigh. I think she caught me staring at her once when her nostrils were on the plastic lid, so she explained that the smell of caffeine kept her heartstrings alive.
Her eyes were forever open, as if she never stopped to blink because she was afraid she'd miss something, and the sun sat on her eyelashes like birds on a wire because she told me she didn't know how to cry.
She had a habit of dropping things, and the third time she stooped below the table to pick something up, she screamed and hit her turquoise beret against the desk and spilled the sugar out of my tea. She apologized like a little kid, with her bottom lip sticking out ever so slightly, and said
the rainfall kidshe always loved the sting of grapefruit
and the way the winter air kissed her skin,
leaving it pink and raw and sensitive to the touch
like the heart she tried so hard to hide.
but she never grew up, not really.
she always belonged to the rain
and never stayed in one place for too long.
she was afraid her stupid heart might dig in,
leave its roots in the people and then
it would rip and tear when she up and left.
and she never accepted the fact that
she did indeed have a heart.
she tried so hard to be hollow and
let the winter rain chill her skin and
soak into her bones so that she, too,
might be just as cold.
so she stopped believing in sunshine.
she accepted the title of rainfall kid,
and lived with thunder in her chest.
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.
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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