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ExpirationWith you I always feel like I’m
to break in the wrong size of shoes.
Sometimes I sit and stew
over how you’re seventeen and
you think I’m a princess
the trapped-in-a-tower kind
and how you wear suits and talk about politics
and think you know the world.
My throat interrupts with an affronted gurgling sound
sometimes when I think about you,
you deal out advice where it just isn’t called for
you quote science-fiction to justify war
and you’re seventeen years old and you think I’m a princess
and you just have no blooming idea.
Darling, one of these days I will tell you my mind
But until then we’ll never fit
I’m afraid –
that even after that day
you’ll still be trimmed hedges and
Sparse KindlingFinding your love is like gathering frozen branches.
My hands ache, my teeth chatter.
But I won’t last the winter without something for the flames.
Coffee StainsDress shoes click on the streets laid slick with cinnamon and wasted air
It's sugar on your lipstick, darling; a dangerous affair.
You chose coffee
Like you chose romance
Just for the idea of romance; cream and smoked wood swirling around in your cup,
And steam curling up into the atmosphere like the locks in his hair.
Tantalisingly dark and hauntingly aromatic
You craved it
You mocked the raven that eyed you from its branch out in the blustering courtyard and
You didn't even like the taste.
The silver curve of the teaspoon showed your warped reflection like a deathly omen
It showed the line of your neck and each glittering pearl
The hanging clock on the wall, for all its carved hearts and varnished oak
Couldn't quite drown out the tolling
Pendulum swinging by your ear as you ran your hand along the creases in the leather seat
The sweet, too-strong perfume mingling with the scent of the
Dark black coffee
Much as the gold around his wrist had
FlashesSometimes when I touch something warm
it’s your soft skin that I feel in the shower again.
I draw my hand away like it’s been scalded and flit back
to the present. Safe. The moment’s gone.
The past is a vision of bubbly and rings, ski-trips and promises that sounded so full –
the future is a whirlwind of parties and high spirits,
calendar dates, change and someone else’s sweet grin.
But now, darling. Now is a lonely thing.
as obvious as neon signsLast night I picked you up from a glass-littered street corner
and helped you wipe bile from your strands of flaxen hair.
You sang under your breath as you stumbled into the car.
I turned corners while streetlights shimmered in the drops on the windscreen
and you fell asleep trying to tell me that you used to know better than this.
It’s not that I mind
(I’d spend every night combing seedy cities if it meant keeping you safe)
your eyes haven’t smiled in a year now
and I wish that I knew what it would take to make you happy
because between cheap liquor, cold nights and bad lovers
I haven’t got a clue.
Simple ThingI’d like to be an off-beat
syncopated little thing;
note and stem floating on the melody, just sitting in
appoggiatura, grace-note, special thing.
I’d like to be a sailor
swinging on the ocean wind
coarse old rope between my hands and salt-spray where my toes begin
nimble little sailor, clever thing.
I’d like to be a bed-sheet
gentle thing to warm your skin
thing that you hug tighter when the morning starts to filter in
falling through your creases, lucky thing.
GaiaI wonder if I’ll miss your skies. When we first started out, you promised I would see the Amazon,
that I’d look up and marvel at your canopy and wild sun.
You said that you were mine.
And oh, how people raved about you –
they said that you were an oyster; a stage
and I went on believing that you were a bright cacophony of wood and actors
or some soft seafood delicacy.
I gulped you down like fish and lies
and with you in my throat, I choked.
I won’t tell you you’re cruel when I let you go.
Instead I will tell you the truth:
that you are Alps in France and wide, wide oceans,
high heel shoes and splendid walls,
you are divorce attorneys and air-force planes
and banks gleaming in the stark white sky as they lord over pigeon cities.
You are sometimes hugs from the people I love
and at other times mushroom clouds.
You are the rhythm thrumming beneath the skins of drums
and a dentist drilling a child’s teeth;
the roar of city buses that still scare m
The BeachIf my grandfather’s brother hadn’t been murdered
then maybe he wouldn’t have hit you so hard,
seeing bare feet and hard times and
the violence that repeats itself over and over
because tragedy sends shockwaves
that still echo when you’re grown.
I know now that when you scream at me
you’re not really my mother.
You’re fourteen again
being punished for a crime that happened years before you were ever born
mourning for a life that vanished like footprints on the beach
and left a lonely child
trailing through the sand and never finding someone older,
never finding the right way home.
I know I have it lucky –
kids in those decades used to disappear like air
I know I have it lucky
one bruise is better than three or ten or thirty
I know I have it lucky,
it’s better to be sad and scared and still alive.
I know I have it lucky here.
Out on the beach there are only bones.
how to take someone for granted (instructions).i. when the weight of the world is on their shoulders, leave them be.
when the heaviness transfers to you,
expect their sympathy.
ii. goodnight cuddles and kisses add a nice touch
to a relationship; it is far too much
for them to ask you to listen.
too much time is wasted, you see.
iii. yes, when they are curled up crying with their blanket or duvet or whatever instead of you for warmth, you know you're doing well.
they are beginning to tell
that you only want them for your own need.
iv. endless messages flood your phone. inbox. voicemail. letterbox. they want you but you are not there.
you don't care. congratulations - you're not too attached.
v. now it's the time to find someone new
to bend-over-backwards and jump through hoops for you.
she has gone crawling to someone else for support and is trying to forget your existence.
and just how do you feel about that?
blowing my teeth out the back of my skullI.
we are hynagogic wasteland words, unraveling
corpses clutching at bruised throats - white gasoline
and when your skin heals, i hope i've permeated your bones
( i will never be rid of you ).
mother, i...mother, i...
to a six-year-old
a hospital is just fun
a new place to explore
and pretend that vending machines
make everything taste better
and it's an adventure
to wash hands and somehow
keep Mom safe from
the pathogen that i am
but somehow the fact that
you can no longer hold me
is scarier than the scar
stretching across your stomach, dimpled
at each end and accompanied
by stretch marks (at least
one tenth of those
are my fault)
doesn't include word problems
or fear of cancer
because Mom is all-powerful
and she doesn't run from things
(they run from her and hide
hoping to wait out discipline
from work-seasoned hands)
it took fourteen years of experience
to realize that a 50% chance
i will have your scars
just so long as you will hold me
[and it's okay if i don't survive
because you did]
Missing GirlsMissing Girls
These snippets of girls, broadsheets, ballads,
a one paragraph whisper in a smudged newspaper
beneath an ad for a pizza, two for one.
But they are singular despite their raveled tangled names.
They are still awake, a litany of how young girls die.
Delia is gone, 14 years old, cinched and muzzled with rope,
two bullets. He was pardoned. She sleeps somewhere unknown.
Her bones whisper to the unknowns. At least Delia has a song.
Johnny Cash sang about her, the Man in Black.
Did they bury her in black, a thrift store school dress
with sweat stained underarms?
They tell Delia of truck stop stores gaudy with harsh beaten light,
racks of DVDs of Country’s greatest hits. A bus stop smelling of aged urine.
He promised he would leave his wife, girlfriend, so many words.
In a church bathroom. He had a kind face.
Grainy posters stapled to telephone poles, taped to smudged windows,
small store billboards cramped with fading pleas
amidst ads for babysitting, massage and guitar le
InfatuatedI am infatuated with a boy
because his smile is too big for his face
and it feels like the only thing that’s real,
because his eye color is cerulean
and that’s been my favorite crayon
ever since my grandmother
bought me that set of sixty four,
because he’s so damn beautiful
even though boys aren’t meant to be,
because his hands are big enough
to hold the whole world
and he doesn’t even know
what he wants in them yet.
I wish I could find the courage to crack
my rib cage open for him
and point out all of the ways
that he managed to sneak into my heart
so nothing is misunderstood
or misinterpreted anymore,
but I can’t even speak to him
because my tongue ties itself
into pretty ribbon bows
because he is a gorgeous jigsaw
and I don’t understand him at all,
even after a million glances.
So I’m dissecting every word he says,
every glance in my direction,
and every casual brush of skin
to try and find subliminal messages
even if there aren’
The devil watched me dreaming,
kissed my wrists
and painted my lips with blood.
I bartered for my place in heaven,
but I was buried too deep
to be heard.
He pushed me
out to sea and I
valiantly tried to drown.
FiniteI sometimes wish you were small—
so small you could sail this little model ship
into the clouds and never have
to look at a bowl full of put-out cigarettes again,
or make those oh-so-obvious
black paper hearts that you tear
down the center only to
band-aid back together
when I assure you, once again,
that you’re not worthless.
Remember the license plate you had
on that old blue car—
the one that said DANCE?
I wish you’d do that again;
I wish you’d do it in the middle of that abandoned attic
with its weathered beams and emptiness
like we did as children, without shame
and without purpose.
You once said that everywhere you went
places looked desolate, as though the desolation
shadowed you, clinging to your heals,
encasing you like an egg you were
trying to break free of, your arm reaching
for the immensity of the sky—
for a butterfly of hope.
“I feel as big as the world.” You said this
one morning as you purposely spilled that cup
an open letter to depressionsuicide princess,
I think you're half in love with me:
the way that you
follow me about, grab at my ankles,
tighten my veins
would almost endear me to you.
and in a certain masochistic way,
I nearly welcome your knock on my door,
the steady clink of your
instruments of torturebecause
who would I be without this
to carry around?
but sometimes, dear,
you impose too much.
it's all well and good
to write the occasional
poem, to hold you by the hand
of a Saturday afternoon
when I have nothing better to do
than indulge your caprices
but you're not an amusing
pet, a fashionable idiosyncrasy.
not to me.
you are dust in my lungs,
haze in my eyes,
the frantic screaming of a
behind my voice at all times.
when you get too heavy to drag around
you simply pull me down.
would you care to count the days
that you've shackled me to my bed,
without the will even to open my eyes
and see you?
I am not your plaything.
please, leave m
I'll Drink to ThatWrite me a cocktail,
Make it nice and strong,
Make it out of the memories
Hidden in the back of your mind.
Remember your dad walking out when you were nine,
And your mom crying on the kitchen floor.
Remember watching a butterfly
And wondering what you’ll never know about it.
Remember becoming a woman
And learning that you were only good for sex now.
Remember the taste of her lip balm mixed with the rain,
And the feel of drenched hair under your fingers.
Remember black eyes and broken bones
And the “I Love You”s that put them there.
Remember hearing “the cancer is gone”
And crying tears of joy on your mother’s gown.
And how hard it can be.
Mix it with sunshine,
Just enough to remember why you’re still here
And why this poet raises her glass
To hearts like yours baptized in ink.
IronmanHear me read it
My friends used to call William "Ironman" because the first time we kissed he got a nosebleed and the taste of his blood haunted me for a long time after it. We'd only been twelve years old and apparently the anxiety spiked his blood pressure to the point of combustion... I remember that when we were forced to take sex ed a few years later we were divided into separate classes for boys and girls, in case a diagram of an ovary was too risqué and we became animalistic and started clawing at each other in our seats, but nonetheless when our teacher Ms Jacobs had explained to us what an erection was in my mind all I could picture was the blood rushing to his nose and then the slash of cranberry across my blouse.
With the idea planted in his mind it didn't take long for William's hands to start wandering, but the image persisted. Every time I thought about just letting it happen I wondered what would happen if he got too excite
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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