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Home is just Another Word for YouHome is just another word for you
the space of your fingers and
your ribs and your breath
and the way your tongue wraps around words like an embrace
a gentle brush of lips against skin and rough
exposed raw nerves, misfiring synapses
what i really want is to fold myself into your arms and
forget everything that ever felt like broken glass
forget picking shards out of my palms and
cursing myself for my recklessness
what i really need is to lie down for a while and think
commit every pain to memory so i can stop making
the same stupid mistakes
Periodic TableI think I would like to write myself into the periodic table,
slip myself between copper and cadmium, a barely-there perception.
This way, when you glance through me I can
reinforce myself with the knowledge that I am surrounded by
the heart of a supernova
time will never end but
it will certainly forget me
it will never forget the girl who held on between cobalt and manganese
boy with water song insideboy with water song inside
1 – boy with water song
the sound of it buzzing in the base of my skull
i think when this drought ends in rain
it will also end in hope because
there’s a certain type of pessimism that comes with death
2 – brother
links of chain connect like misfiring synapses
i whisper sometimes through the gaps in the wall and i wonder if
when it gets too unbearable in the sun sometimes they give me a drink of water but
there’s never enough shade anymore
the desert stretches out under the water song like a vast body
but the cells can’t remember what they’re supposed to be, they think
is this balance?
the desert sang to the bird-legs-boy and
remembered the feel of Sarel-girl’s cheek pressed to the Earth, the imprints
of her feet and fingers on the ground
the desert listened to the breathing of gazelles and the pounding f
you didn’t get to tell me your name then because
you were pulled away in the crowd.
I kept wondering.
Hey, my name’s—
still no name, you won’t start the year on a bad note.
When the teacher starts talking about dendrites
Hey, sorry, I’m Johnny.
At this point we don’t know what will become of us yet, that you will leave and I will try to stop you the only way I know how.
I scrawl back.
I’ve got theatre next, you?
>No, sorry. I’ve got tech mods.
What even is that?
>No idea. Everything else was full.
Oh, that sucks.
My synapses are firing madly, my mind awakening
with a rush. This is the feeling I usually get from winter.
This is how I will feel in that long winter
(when I’m not asleep.)
Minutes-hours-days until we speak
a real conversation.
I still don’t know that someday there will be no more of this
I still don’t know that
I will have to use these words to capture you
watching the hourglass [no more time] i
sometimes in the mirror i am all eyes, just the orbs, engorged, watching their swollen selves without the ability to blink.
sometimes in the mirror i am a shadow,
sometimes a skeleton.
sometimes i have no reflection.
bleak: turning: i am a will-o'-the-wisp drawing you from the safe path. in my corner i am surrounded by living stone, and it never stops moving, breathing.
i don't need to breathe: i'm a waking doll, [rosy-cheeked-curly-haired-fragile] a plaything discarded on a whim: i'm a missing reflection, a phenomenon, the last chord in some trashy pop song spilling out your car windows [you drive past my house in the middle of the night]
i am not a real girl, and i am never alone.
but i still wanna be herethis is a good moment, the kind i can feel like an embrace, the kind that wraps itself around me like a summer breeze, a bit of warmth to change the cold and a bit of daydreaming to change my mind
i can’t change my mind anymore but you can so i want you to tell it to me like you’re honest to the core of yourself, like when god made you he taught you kindness even when you’re vulnerable, like he wove sunlight in your soul so you could shine.
“do you wanna be something besides
excuses for why I'm shakingwe live in a world of apologies.
I made a mistake a year back,
choosing my addiction to oxygen
over less demanding things.
I’m sick of trembling for problems
that aren’t mine and I’m sick of trying
to romanticize black holes and
the indiscriminate nature of lithium and
I’m sick of waking up every morning
feeling sick. and truly, I’m sorry
but I’m not ready to accept my role
in the making of myself. I’m not ready
to lament for those with a smaller
pain tolerance, and for my dislike
of anything that requires commitment.
I’m sorry I miss you and I’m sorry
I won’t admit that out loud.
how scary is it to be something
so unalterably heavy, to be diagnosed
as your own worst enemy, but god,
you’re so fucking beautiful,
and not in the stereotypical boy
meets girl meets fairytale way, but
the kind that makes my heart
bleed a million miles quicker.
I just wanted to cry on all
your scars and wash them clean.
when things are bad for
a cure?they say Van Gogh
used to eat yellow paint
so that he could get
the happiness inside of him.
especially on nights like this,
I wonder if that would work.
I wonder if the pigment
would seep into my intestines:
would spread through my veins
like an elixir:
would curl and coil and cast
on every angle, every aspect
of my body.
I wonder if endless trials
and retrials of drugs
could be replaced by the
occasional dose of cadmium,
liquid sunshine, intangible dream
I swear I can almost
I wonder if it would do
than make me sick,
curled up on the bathroom floor
and left choking on a life
that I can never have.
the scatterbrain's guide to the galaxy.sometimes i forget that
the sun is not a candle
even though each night
it melts like wax
into the forgiving arms of the sea.
sometimes i find myself
at a loss of breath
when the moon erupts from the water
clad in nudity
with the shy demeanor of a virgin
exposing flesh to the naked eye.
sometimes it's hard to remember that
i cannot touch the stars
despite the fact that
they know me like lovers–
watching the air escape my teeth
in the milky twilight and
catching my 2 a.m. whispers to my notebook
when my tongue is swimming in coffee.
sometimes i lose myself
in the vast expanse of our universe
because the feeling of being small
is nothing compared to
the feeling of being nonexistent.
sometimes i intake sharply
at the sight of the ink
neatly pressed into my feet
and with good reason,
for my mom nearly fainted
when she got the call from me
informing her that i had recently gotten
a rendering of the solar system tattooed on my soles.
(sometimes i wonder if
the galaxy is as smitten with
eloisesometimes her cardigans are woven from blueberries, but they haven't been for a while.
"this morning smells like granny smiths, honey, come see, they're growing" says her dad. but plastic apples do not grow, she knows that, she's not five anymore.
she hides in her blanket forts, protects her wooden embattlements with dream catchers and purring rivers of silence. she hugs a pillow tightly, presses it to her face and refuses to breathe until the scent leaves her room. then sobs like a child because oh, it smelled so good and her dad's gone now.
"sweetie, you can't aimlessly stare at a ceiling while looking like you're busy", says her mum, but she manages it, actually. concluding the meaning of life from her fluorescent lamp, stuttering, she seems to be engrossed in her own white, washed lies.
more than ever like a rotten apple, she doesn't mind the half-attempted bite marks on her skin.
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
forest firesmy signature scrawled across all
of your sentences like a stain of apologies:
i'm sorry for anchoring you to my hip
like a one-sided promise, like a flood of insincerity.
i'm sorry for collecting you like a well of wishes,
for whispering you into every crack in these walls.
i do not have the depth to tether our limbs
with the tautness of our smiles, but i will
balance you on the edges of my knees until
you slip away.
i have been kneeling with my arms outstretched
but the divinity of your touch
never graced my expectant stance.
our bones built forest fires together,
but it was always my tears putting them out.
i’d tell you I hated you
if you had a voice or a face,
or any sense of tangibility aside
from the spider fingers you use
to crawl through my brain
you are not beautiful, like
all the other poets protest. you
are the red in my eye, like
a pen bled; the ragged to
my fingernails, the hitch of my breath
when it catches in my throat.
before i go, i’ll write a million letters (a million
pennies for my thoughts, bitter, embedded
under my tongue) and send them to people
i’ve never met, telling them how my eyes were blue
when i was little but now are the same gray
i’m choking on, how i am maddie and how that’s short
for a name i was never graceful enough for, how
i tell myself stories of lives i’ll never live so i
can go to sleep
because when i’m really gone, that’s all that’ll be left
(it’s funny what people
try to justify with words)
you never loved me,
you selfish thing, i wonder why
i wasted so many nights relivin
i can't make you love me.i burnt my tongue on the thesaurus
trying to find a better way to say
but my words tumbled out like smoke,
and i stood there thinking
you could paint a masterpiece
with his tears
this is a choice, like everything elseI am going to harden
my heart to you
and I will do it as a
I will keep vigil
for every tendril of
affection that crawls over me,
and then I will cut it out
like a weed,
like a weakness,
like something unwanted.
you will keep to your own
little box by the window
and you will flourish,
and you will grow
but you will not run
roughshod all over my garden.
Automatonone day i asked him to rewire me and he did
and there was a key that opened up my ribcage like some safe
like it’s worth protecting what’s in there
and he cut open nerve centers and peered inside with his microscope eyes and
he fixed me, replaced lines of nerve cells with copper wiring and didn’t realize nerves are made in the synapses, in the spaces between the cells
he rewired me and left no spaces in my head and
i didn’t feel real anymore
Sometimes I think the hardest thing about poetry is consistently finding something to talk about and searching for a voice and all that But it's also really fun
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Lilyas has dedicated herself to making our community a brighter place with her vibrant artwork and infectious enthusiasm for interacting with others in our community. It has certainly paid off, as many deviants flock to her page on a daily basis to let her know how much of an inspiration she is. We absolutely agree, and couldn't let all that hard work go without recognition, so it's with great pride that we bestow the Deviousness Award for March 2014, to ... Read More