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Scars and Starsif the cosmos lie
in every hollow bone
in this weary body,
then i have some
apologies to make.
[i apologize to
and to every damned soul
on every meaningless planet
orbiting around my life;
because if I go to hell,
then i'm taking every last
one of you with me.
i apologize to him,
because although the stars
shine within my body,
every last one of them
is dead and burned out
and the happiness they radiate
is ephemeral and fake.
i apologize to every goddamn person
that has to watch
as my universe implodes;
because although the supernov
QuietUnspoken words hung suspended off broken tongues
like the raindrops on her eyelashes
that he desperately wished to taste.
Then, the silence was noise;
so loud that it threatened to break
not his ears, but his heart.
And as the seconds painfully ticked by,
he longed to hear the high chime of her voice,
sweetness rivaling that of a warbling songbird.
He thought that he would give anything
to hear her say something,
anything at all.
But when the searing words “I hate you”
stumbled out of her mouth and danced on her lips,
those soft lips that he dreams of feeling upon his,
his heart shattered withing his chest
and he could feel every jagged piece stab into his soul
like a broken vase that nobody cared to clean up.
And as he stood their,
fist clutched to chest
and eyes wide and disbelieving,
all was silent as she quietly walked away.
What They Don't Understand About Sadness I.
Honestly, I don't remember
the last time I said I was ok
and meant it. Because here,
depression is not a word
people want to hear. They
want to hear “happy” and
“fine” and “everything’s ok”.
They do not want to hear
about the hot tears that roll
down your cheeks on a nightly
basis; they do not want to hear
you say “I'm drowning”.
Because in this world, you need
to be born knowing how to swim.
And if you can't, you need to
fake it-- you need them to think
that there is still air in your lungs
and they need to think “happy”
is a vital part of your vocabulary.
They need to believe every fake smile.
Because depression is not a word
that the world understands. And
if you can't fake it, you are not a
person that the world wants to see.
What they don't understand are the
hopeless nights of staring off into
nothing; they don't
how to cure depression1.
go into the shower.
put the heat as high
as it will go and watch
your skin turn scarlet.
savor the pain.
[it's the only way you know
that you're not dead.]
lather your loofah
with too much soap.
scrub your body
as hard as you can.
pretend depression is filth,
and you're simply washing it off.
don't stop until your skin is raw
and red and the tears are warm
and flow without restraint.
[letting the tears out
is the only way to keep from drowning.]
sit in the bottom of the shower
and cry as loud as needed.
use the noise to muffle your tears.
try not to feel the sobs
as they rack your body too hard.
[everything is too goddamn hard.]
pretend you're ok.
when people ask,
lie and say your fine.
[know you're not fine.]
when your body is drowning,
try and learn to swim.
know it won't work
MidnightTouch my heart and I'll touch yours,
fingerprints leaving marks far too large
to be washed away by another.
Because I am not something
that can simply be forgotten.
I am the stars,
burning bright for hundreds of years
after I've already left.
And after you've fallen in love with the stars,
you cannot help but crave their light.
So fall in love with me
and become my moon,
and let us become the only light
in this sky of perpetual darkness.
you saw the world in me;
so disgustingly beautiful
and broken, shattered like
the sky in a thunderstorm.
really, a thunderstorm is
all i am; too loud, too bright,
too goddamn melodramatic
and every scream i utter too
i cried out for redemption
with every raindrop word
that rolled off your cumulus
lips; every syllable you spoke
was laced with deceit and
spoken with sweet nothings.
every star in my body is falling,
so close to death and hoping
to burn out brighter. And i guess
that's how this works; you steal
every ounce of hope i had left in
humanity in exchange for a
broken heart and a few hours
i wanted to be like you;
you were beautiful, you
were summer rain, you
were refreshing cold in
a world of heat. You were
graceful and longed for,
and you were everything
i wish i was but know i
but now i know that all you
ever were was a puddle;
shallow and filled with
memories of another life.
i fear t
PlummetFlying has always been a dream of mine,
and I dreamed of flying with you.
when I confessed my feelings
your cherry lips airily breathed those words;
“I love you too.”
You kissed me gently
on the lips. My face
blushed rose red;
I felt my heart begin to pound,
sprinting in our race.
Hand in hand,
we walked the world,
side by side together.
Happiest I'd ever been,
my stomach flipped and twirled.
Slowly your smile faded,
replaced with a grimace.
I began to wonder
what was happening?
Had we hit our limits?
One night you stumbled home,
smelling of beer and perfume.
I began to tear up, began to shout.
You screamed and struck me;
I felt a bruise begin to bloom.
This happened weekly now;
your terrible fits of madness.
Afterward, sweet words
“I love you baby,” (these were lies)
Your heart had faded to blackness.
I finally realized
that I had been flying,
before I was with you;
you had filled me with concrete love,
and now my body was plummeting
(oh so close to dying.)
Concrete WingsEyes gazing across wide expanses
of turquoise skies and cotton-ball clouds,
my heart longs for nothing more
than to fly among the birds.
But you are my anchor to the ground;
the syringe from when you injected me
with your concrete love and false promises
is still needled into my heart.
I want nothing more
than to pull you out of my life,
but you're less like a thorn in my side
and more like a serrated knife;
whenever I try and tug you out,
pieces of me come out along with you.
Resting upon the dirt
is as close as I'll get to the stars;
I'll just have to settle
for the faint breeze down here
instead of the crashing euphoria
of everlasting freedom and solitude.
You are my anchor the the ground;
even my heart no longer
flutters in the clouds.
Falling in Slow Motion I.
Sometimes I wonder
when the star-speckled nebulae
that explode within your iris
shine as their own galaxies,
does the world fade
into a blur of lights and colors
where you don't see things
as they truly are?
And that's what really gets to me sometimes;
we're all living solitary lives,
simply trapped in a sea of bodies,
and no matter how hard we try
we only ever get to see things
from one perspective.
Sometimes I wish
to rest upon the clouds
that swim on your lips;
but now I know
that as hard as I may try,
those clouds are just water and
I'll always just fall straight through
and leave myself stranded in the sky
without a parachute to catch my fall.
And it's moments like that
when I realize--
the ground is far softer
than the calloused bones
of the people that
grip my arms
and bruise my heart.
And when trying
really isn't worth the pain,
it's easier to just collapse
into the oce
eulogies and last wordsyour ear sings
soft white tufts of hair on your pillow.
is this the end of the world
or just the tip of it?
regardless, it turns from one eon to the next
and i can't help but feel like the beginning
of the world was a deep,
this world has had little to do with us,
my dear, and us, so little to do with it.
often we found ourselves cocooned in
a madness so faint we could barely
recognize its yellow, red, and orange
tendrils. it took me a long time
to figure out i wasn't mad at you,
but mad for you-
i kept my hands cupped tight around your light,
you told my legs to walk when i wanted
little for myself and your clarity
cut through to me before any of the
meds ever could, before any of the
doctors could give me a
160,000 dollar answer.
mountain peaks rounded by years
of uncertainty, we saw Jesus
lose his footing in a universe
where we all exist as holograms.
we made love in many different places
as many different people, but with the same
force, the same grace, t
choking on your elegy(tonight, tonight --)
our lips touch cerulean, and we witness
an exorcism of the heavens.
maybe god fell asleep on the job,
or maybe we were birthed with hysteria at the
skeletons exhumed from our graves of skin.
in other words, we refuse to be our own
StayYou gave me your favourite shirt,
Wrapped it around me like your arms
And I twined a string around your wrist
That was tied around my heart.
I feel those threads pulling,
They tug at my chest when you’re away;
Each step makes it harder to breathe—
I just want for you to stay.
Memories of Brass and Blue Clack.
That was our home phone, settling unevenly in its base after a ride in my mother's not-quite-steady fingers.
"Well, what happened?" That was Dad, his voice dressing that special kind of casual that camouflages apprehension in front of children. But we were all adults, at this point.
"She passed away." Mom, using words that seemed too formal for her own mom. Looking back, I'm pretty sure she was trying not to cry.
And that was me. I did something that was a bit more soundless: I turned myself off. My brother exited the living room in silence, and my father embarked on a stream of consolation phrases to guide my mother through her consternation; I just sort of watched, at a distance that felt miles upon years away from three feet of couch and cushions. Little things, like a stray line of silver along Mom's hairline, or the fact that Dad sings bass but often spoke tenor, became magnetic
if it were possible to do so...If it were possible to do, she walked with a lisp.
Did she drag one foot across the floor slightly with a ssss from the smooth sole of her shoe sliding across the cement and stone? Perhaps, but I could never catch her doing it.
As we worked at the old church on Saturdays, helping put together the archives of one hundred years of parish records into some reasonable order for shipment and storage in the new building, she would flit from room to room, shelf to shelf, not noticing her telltale sound that let me know where she was at all times.
She focused on the packing and planning, while I cataloged and indexed. We worked as a silent team, just two volunteers working in the service of our community, organizing a past we both surely knew no one would ever review.
Maybe it was the silence and solitude of the old building we enjoyed so much. The walls were tinted with tradition, and sounds of the outside world hardly penetrated the stone. Perhaps t
Self-destructingI can feel a storm brewing
inside my rib cage
and it's shaking all
I think I might drown
"But, my dear, let's try our best
to keep afloat," you say, but
the lighthouse has lost all hope
The mist is heavy on my bones
and it covers my eyes
from seeing ahead and
from seeing you
(So, in that way,
I guess it's okay)
"I warned you
to always keep your promises,
but you never listened,"
is all that echoes inside my head
Because it's true-
the hands I used to
be able to keep at bay
have crawled up my spine and are
already tight around
I don't know how I got here
Maybe the waves were
rocking me to sleep,
the sirens lulling me
to the rocks,
But now I'm self-destructing
Thinking, Dreaming, WishingThere isn’t enough time in the world
For the thinkers,
Not enough moonlight
For the dreaming,
And not enough love
For the wishful.
the thieves called dreamcatchersThere are fingertips made of feathers
that caress my cheeks in the dead of night
bound to a web of weaved thread
who dangle captured beads in front of my face.
They twirl like dancers who have perfected their moves for centuries,
but can never quite decide which way to turn
lost and lonely
seeking and searching.
(They call the masters of them 'Dreamcatchers'
who steal people's nightmares
because after centuries of abyssal sleeping
they'll do whatever they can to dream -
it's just their luck that nightmares are dreams too)
and i am caught in your teethoutside, you are roses.
you are spring day,
a summer morning,
a flower in dewdrops
learning to blossom.
but you have hands made of thorns,
and you are grasping my heart with a clenched fist.
i am a half-alive bird caught
in the talons of a hawk,
feathers tearing from my bleeding skin
and splashing in the mud.
i keep scissors in my nightstand,
but you are a weed
that one must rip out at the root.
my hands are ghosts
that were never too good
at grasping things in the first place.
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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