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stage frightthe edges peel off every once in a while;
i stick them back together,
press my thumbs down, say i've fixed it---
but it's peeling, fraying,
sliding apart at the seams;
the blurry edges of my vision make me nervous,
make me shake and worry
(i am marble-cut and resolute,
somehow, i'm okay with sentences like puzzle pieces
"you're not okay"
it's addiction, you know,
"this is love"
is this love?
is this ever going to change?
my symptoms are showing
(stage directions: clench fists and
beat holes in the floorboards;
be careful of the bones, they're thin now,
plaster dust packed in a chalky mess
too brittle to serve as framework anymore,
the knees collapse together, tired lovers
sick of swinging back and forth)
act one, scene one:
i never meant for this to happen,
"i don't love you"
the scenery is bleak and minimal,
the cast is laid along the floor in tombstone rows,
players for the damned,
hissing whispered syllables
canis lupus"all the better to see you with"
your eyes like ankle weights enthralled her---
save the lonely girl,
put her out of her misery
with her own helium kisses
(she likes the dark, it's in her eyes and
you can show her depth---
i dare you)
the devil's in your gaze;
his fingers in your throat, he's watching
(can you feel the knuckles pressing
in your lungs?)
"all the better to
slit your wrists and suck you dry"
all the better to feel your fingers
dancing with the devil's hands---
he loves how you love
the way her fingers taste in your stomach
(she walks like wolves are after her,
you know she knows you're waiting)
don't be foolish
she walks with spiders and talks to trees,
her legs like tendrils reaching through the soil,
she knows this place---
she's heard of you and your teeth,
and her doe eyes see right through you to the
nerves sewn in your cortex,
to the scorpion-tango of instinct and survival
branded across the notches in your backbone;
she's slept in foxhol
spidershe walks with spiders,
marching along baseboard cracks they hide their webs
in the back of her mind, the
cavity behind her throat
they bind her voice in silk
she walks in step
two by eight she knows
how they feed at night she doesn't know
how to live here,
doesn't know secrets
how to starve with class, she pretends she isn't brittle
i pretend she lives there now
she doesn't know me
doesn't know how to smile my name
peeking through the windows of her eyes,
gaps in teeth
how they shiver every day
how they shiver
all the time
how they shiver when she's cold
she's always cold,
my fingers freeze around her wrists
my palms pressed to bones stuck like bear traps
she walks with
legs like spiders,
spindles creaking across floorboards in
carpet tacks she steps around
navigating webs she won't be caught
she walks with them
knows their secret goose steps
she marches with class
two by eight she knows
how they feed
bloodyou're ages older than your namesake;
i hear your bones rattle in your sleep,
shaking in time with old songs
we used to sing together,
but our blood is thin,
frayed ties too tired to tether us together---
you're growing up too fast
(i never knew you,
just the salt-tracks of your tears
cutting down the lines of your faded smile)
we're not perfect, are we? do you
remember when i cried you to sleep?
we played assassin in the halls,
shooting across banisters;
we chased our folded ambition across
welded to our perches, pulling triggers
we buried our secret wars; we
only held hands in pictures,
white flags pinned to our shirt sleeves,
hearts buried with surrender
(our blood is seeping through the
frames on the walls; it's
thinner than ink, we'll be safe
if we keep it inside us)
do you remember when we
sang ourselves to sleep?
we were dissonant and proud with cracking voices;
we never knew lullabies,
just off-key harmonies
splintering their way into the bones
wallsthis house is made of
glass bones and windowpanes---
we're hiding in spectacle; we're
hiding our voices behind crystal sheetrock
("i can't hear you")
i can still see your fingers
skipping beats across your cheekbones
(you paint portraits with fingerprints,
pressing patterns into faces met in dreams)
you're different now,
butterfly turned silkworm with age---
faded monarch, you're no majesty
(you're made of spiders, little legs
linked and stacked---
there are cobwebs in your eyes,
you can only see in dreams)
we're hiding in vacuums and
pressure-treated walls, locked in silence like
we knew what we were doing when we
and started leading fragile lives,
shards of who we were
patching cracks in tempered floors
(we're made of glass and
we sit still for fear of falling)
our lives are printed on the walls,
places where our hands have held us up,
half-remembered journeys around rooms
from before we forgot that we were leaving---
now we'll stay here, now we're trapped
crumbled columnsmars is on his knees waving surrender,
god of war turned timid lover, he is
begging you to look away
(i can't see you like this, i can't
see you splintering---
i should have known you'd
fray at the edges)
don't say those broken words;
save your voice for lullabies
printed in history books
out of tune with comfort--
you're not happy here
i've seen broken
wildernesses struck like piano keys;
the sharp notes resonate through the
branches in my spine;
have you heard about the falling pantheon?
they tumbled through the forest leaving
us alone, we're alone, we're not strong enough for this;
you're not strong enough for this, and
i can't carry you;
save your voice:
don't call for help, there's no one there---
we're alone here
everything is black;
we used to be bright red brushed across night's canvas,
now we're helpless,
now we're running out of words, and ther's nothing left to say,
there's no one here to hear us, so
save your voice
(we can whisper with our withered tongues,
we'll remember o
Change this lifeHiding in the shadows
Resisting in secrecy
Trying to find a way
To change this life of misery
The future is unknown
The past is to forget
The present is dull and boring
Is this what life has to offer?
I want to change
And I keep trying
Only to fail miserabily
Every single time
eight ways you've made me small1. I wish
this was for you.
2. my journal pages - the
brown one with all our monologues -
were jarred with hollow vows of
last poems of
letting you slip into a coma
of bad memories, watching you
fall to your death off
a cascading cliff of disease
and dis ease.
it was never
easy for me
3. there's a reason I ask
whether you're grey
(dark white, elusively black, in between)
or blue (behind the clouds, under wave-foam,
whateverthefuck runs through the back of my
palms); I'd rather have
than the arms
that once held you half-
heartedly. you had always been
my harmony and I
would have killed
to have been yours.
4. it could never have been just me, the way
it could never have been just
5. disasters are not beautiful,
but how is it that you
managed to make my inner linings
converge into bows
and explode into wings the very
night you decided to rebuild your walls
to a lower height?
6. I wish
diaryi thinned recall,
strangled memory until she screamed black
or blue, strung her source of voice along
the willowed incline of vein to wrist and down
let the curl thirstily imply
just how cut it is to pain in numbers:
one scar for extravagant wine dates, three
for the number of times we fucked crying,
eight for forgotten promises of ever after
i heard a sordid song in your tallied matchstick
bones, victorian in beauty & proper repression
of the bloody details like a bruise we push beneath
our hollow skin with dirty fingernails
see, the past is not a headless infant with knives for
playful fingers, though it is not to say
that cribs or birdcages hold anything more than
what we leave them to engulf
i swallowed you whole, ocean— basked by the enchantments
of soft-spoken life, bathed by neurotic erosion.
they taught me that the cleansing of your body now
fades the transient you of yesteryear, speak in familiar tongue:
bathroom stall mirages of rounds, clocks, convey
Whenever I hurt myselfI have a feeling
Someone is watching
So I look around
But there's no one to be found
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
Makers Of The Cage. Holders Of The Key.Our eyes are the closest thing we have to freedom.
We see endless blue sky, and the stars beyond.
We see the beauty of the world.
We see our reflection in the mirror;
the reality, and the fantasy.
Our eyes see far and great.
But the rest of us cannot follow.
Our hands probe the steel bars around us.
Fumbling in the dark.
Cut by the sharp edges.
The bleeding never stops.
Our feet shuffle around.
Trying to go places.
But we walk in circles.
Our emotions go from red to blue;
orange to green;
yellow to purple,
mixing in a haze.
Our mind goes to dark places,
and only wanders deeper.
Oblivious to the place right next door.
It knows the freedom,
it knows the pit.
There are endless paths to take.
There's a cage we need to break.
There is a key ourselves create.
In our hands, it's never too late.
on bradbury and table dancingYou are not a wordsmith
whatever you might like to think. ('Smith'
indicates precision and coldness and fire:
words are softer than that unless you mold them strong.)
It's a difficult road to follow, and not many
make it past the fork. Choose a path,
Janus says, whirligig keys spinning on his shoulders:
I am a wordworker, with my tools too crude, forming
rough-edged carvings painted with pretty imagery.
Notebooks scattered across the landscape
of a child's room, to be stumbled across,
read, red-penned, in the thick and choking breath of night.
When the bough breaks
a hanged man laughs. He carries typewriters
in his pockets, and cigarettes in the soles of his shoes.
I will never be a word mistress,
whoring myself to the speech of people I do not know and will never know me.
The oven is set to Fahrenheit 452, but the words were already aflame
before they ever took shape under your tongue.
You love everything they've ever written, and carry
unabashed loathing for every syllabl
Death to the LoversHe screamed,
He tore his hair from his scalp;
But it didn't bring her back.
The beautiful girl
With the gorgeous smile
And witty remarks
Would always lay six feet under.
She would lie in her death bed,
Her arms folded on her chest
And her face full of peace
Known only to the dead.
He would be the first to rot.
First his health,
Then his sanity.
She would forever feed on his emotions
Like a pretty little leech,
Sapping his well being
And happiness from her underground world.
And he would let her,
For a fool like him
Who allowed himself to love,
don't make me say itlook, mom, no hands---
i'm riding waves like hope held high above the water,
i'm being as perfect as i can, and
it could be easier, but i'll show you the
things i can do with dust clouds and rope ladders
watch the sky, mom,
i'm written in the stars,
past the street lamps and the
fourth-of-july flashing lights
(can you see me?)
i promise not to sing like him
i've given up on music and johnny appleseed
and i'm sorry i let him trick me out of religion
i don't want to live forever anymore
i learned my lesson
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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