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Admission of RegressionIf I spliced my syllables together
and only scripted childish sentences
onto stacks of thickly lined paper,
would it stress my lack of progress?
I've been wishing for a word-storm
but writing novice-grade nothings
that could never become novels.
I tried to return to my roots
but was left with only nonsense,
and these whittled-down words showcase
exactly how heavily I've regressed.
JumpEight buttons run down my chest,
are they shutting me in?
They're blocking you out.
You tell me you love me,
and the corners of your lips
dare to rise into a smirk
that reminds me of summer nights since past,
when eight buttons came undone
and your sweet-whispered syllables
shadowed hush-hush kisses along my arms,
but when midnight melted into morning
all that had lingered was lies against my skin.
But your hands still think
that they control my mine,
that lead to wrists who are cut-free,
but bitten-bruised, clenching into my thighs
leaving crescent-mooned creases behind them
like the ghosts of your windswept script
once scribbled in red ink onto paper, written to me,
and I still remember every word
You used to tell me you wanted to go cliff diving:
to feel the tips of your toes pressed
up against nothing but air,
you wanted to feel
to have the world
in the palms of your hands
just so you could drop it.
Instead, you settled for the palm of my hand
I Destroyed A DiamondI've seen what's left behind when you leave
when your split your bit lips and call it quits,
decide someone isn't worth the drama anymore,
and I'm terrified I'll trip over the boundary.
You'll become so sick
of seeing me break myself,
that you'll break me for me.
Backing away isn't an option
when I can't imagine burning us -
letting us catch ablaze and blister
until our skin is so scorched
I can shed mine until I'm only skeleton,
leaving not one bit of the flesh
you've come to call family behind.
When will you set me down?
My nightmares are blowing past barriers,
becoming bone-breaking bits of reality,
clinging to conversations and corrupting teeth
that begin biting me, teasing me, teething on me.
I don't want to dare think you'd drop me,
but I've been clutching to the same cluttered,
plastered on disguise for years
and it's whittled away,
translucent in places and spiderwebbed,
letting all of my words whisper through
and God, I can see that they're hurting you.
With Sewn Seams, I Seem AlrightI want to claw my clavicles until they're split
as if I took a blade to my shoulder,
and I'm tempted to twist the tendons in my arms
until the tension trains them to strengthen.
I want to shrink inside of myself
until there isn't a thing left to see.
I want this thing out of me.
Believe Me, I'm Better NowIf I began pushing
unmeasured morsels past my lips
and made no move to rid myself of them
would you suspect that I spent my nights on the bike?
Sometimes I wonder exactly how well you know me
and how far your expectations of me extend.
What if I tore my skin open but taped my lips shut,
biting back my words but bleeding out lies
and creating scars behind clothing lines?
If I keep quiet am I killing trust?
(Am I killing us?)
Clinging to CatastropheI thought I wouldn't be trailing thoughts from my teeth
and dripping fuck-ups from my fingers anymore
but I can feel them pooling at my feet
and you're watching them drown me.
Though I can't quite imagine
these weak calves could hold the catcher's crouch
long enough to be sure nothing leaked through,
that's the catch: I want to blind you.
I want to wipe away your world of color
and leave behind a fine layer of white
or perhaps a black so heavy
that every other hue would dissolve inside of it
so that the crimson crossing and creasing my skin
would stay unseen, swept between a pitch and pastel
and the smiles would stay framing your cheeks
I am selfish.
I've bitten the bullet of fucking up again,
and with a blade biting my own skin,
I've bled words even deeper than before,
so it is my responsibility to be sure
you won't be subject to seeing the scars.
By now I should be skilled
at sweeping my secrets away,
It Burrows Into Your Bonesthree.
you have to wonder
exactly how long everything will last.
i've been wanting to strike a match
and touch it to the tip of a candle's wick,
then count the seconds until it is quelled.
it is four forty-one in the morning
and i am fighting off the urge
to score my frustrations and fears
onto my skin as if i am a piece of pottery.
this is what i imagine it would feel like
the second before squeezing the trigger
a strange calm that slithers around your scapula
and settles in the curve of your collarbone
with such an easy euphoria you don't notice
when it begins to constrict.
Some Nights Are Better ForgottenLet me slam into the linoleum
allow the tiled wall to leave lines behind
that will blossom into bruises on my skin.
I want to feel your five-fingered strikes
caress my cheekbones like the sick love story
of disaster and self-destruction I've created
by downing one too many drinks.
It's a relief to be marred
with a mark made by a hand
other than my own.
I don't think I ever admitted to you
how your handprint hovered on my skin
in sickening harlequin and hunter greens
I imagined it appropriate to mask it with my make-up
and use foundation to build my smiles in the morning.
It's Getting That Bad AgainI've almost run out of eloquence
and no amount of strung-together emotions
can come close to describing a thing.
I am broken with broke-skin legs
hiding beneath bare-thread quilts
so that if I'm bothered,
I can smile and small talk it all away.
But that isn't good enough.
No, in that I see publication possibilities
and praise that I know perfectly well
I couldn't possibly deserve.
It sounds like sentences stamped onto paper
in bold black ink and set on my English teacher's desk,
with my name precisely penned in the corner -
but I feel much more like the wastebasket
that was always sitting beneath the tabletop
filled with everything no one else wanted to touch.
There's a problem there, too.
I'm covering everything behind metaphors
of desks and worthless wastebaskets,
full-well aware it's too easy to lose my meaning
between the letters of my language,
but I can't let it go.
Every time I open my mouth to speak truth
I spill nothing but shushed-up apologies
and bits of the big pictu
It's Okay to be ImperfectThe moon
Stand Against SuicideI know the pain is perhaps unbearable,
But darling, please put down the blade.
Release your emotions through tears and smiles,
Rather than dreading these days.
Do it for the little girl, whose mother can’t be there,
Or for the boy whose father drank too much.
For the boy who can’t sit in elementary school,
Because the bruises from Daddy hurt to touch.
For the teenage girl lying face down in her bed,
Thinking, why can’t it all be done?
For the elderly man looking up at the stars,
Counting the days one by one.
Do it for the children who wonder, does it end?
For the ones who feel left on their own.
For the ones who think, maybe it wouldn’t be so hard
If I didn’t feel so left alone.
And finally, do it for one other person,
The person in front of these words.
Because you’ll never know how it gets better
When focusing on pain and hurt.
Live one more day, dear, for them and for you,
And I swear to you, problems will fade.
I know, for right now, it’s p
Unable to loveMy love was pure
I only wanted
But my heart
Because my love
Like a piece of garbage
And now I'm unable
Because the shreds
Of my shattered soul
I Thought I Needed FeminismI thought I needed feminism, when I was a little girl.
And I am very sad to admit, that this wasn't very long ago.
I thought when he held the door open for me, that he was making a big mistake.
That he was being a pompous ass, and he took my strength for a fake.
And when he offered to pay my tab, I still called him an ass.
Because I thought he assumed I was poor, and below middle class.
Or when his hard work earned him a promotion,
yet I did nothing, and the boss' ignorance to promote me, I believed was a sexist notion.
My friend really wanted feminism when she found her ex-dead drunk,
removed his clothes, and without his consent, had a pleasurable fuck.
When her parents bust into the room unexpected that night,
she said he raped her, and he was arrested without so much as a fight.
Perhaps feminism was there when I walked out into the street in pure nudity,
and shouted the my neighbors “You have no right to judge me!”
I didn't care about the children who were standing in th
MathematicsI am but the sum of my
F L A W S;
a network of
S C A R S
a disaster of
D R E A M S
a shield of
B O N E S
C A L C U L A T I O N
a void of
to the girl i lose my words aroundi have been meaning to tell you for years:
i think you’re beautiful. i have
seen nothing on earth that holds a candle
to the ocean you carry inside your body.
it spills over your edges sometimes, like
a rain shower around you, blurring your penciled-in
lines until there is nothing left of you but your natural
cliffs, valleys, and deserts.
i like that.
i have never met someone who is, somehow,
a sea and a storm at the same time.
maybe i never will again.
maybe you are the only one
who gathers clouds on her forehead
like a promise, or feels the push and pull of the tide
with her every step.
you are beautiful, honestly.
you are honest, beautifully.
it is in the way you talk, the way you hold ice
on your tongue but forget to use it—
you always forget to use it, i don’t think
you know how.
to be truthful, i’m afraid of your smile
and how it breaks over me, how it pulls
me like a whirlpool down, how it pushes me
like a current back to the surface. i’m afraid of
DifferentDifferent on the outside,
Different mask you see daily,
Different girl you call ‘Hailey’
To my surprise
Your ears are distracted,
So I tell lies, looking into your eyes,
“Yea I’m fine. Simply tired”
For that response my brain is wired.
Different mouth you hear speaking,
Different voice you hear screaming
Different eyes you see pleading,
Different person you’d befriended
I’m sorry this is how it’s ended.
an ear to lean oni want to edit my sentences
before i even utter them
but you tell me to speak in ink
like i'm a pen and you're the paper,
promising its lines won't judge.
and i don't doubt that,
but spilling my secrets
is like splitting open a sand bag
and it's impossible to accept
that it's okay to overflow ,
and that you'll fight for me.
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