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it was the end of summer before the tenth grade, and the last time i spoke to you. you smelled of cheap weed and the familiar must before rain, sweat covering your hair that fell over your eyes like vines, and remained even as you looked at the birds as they scattered into a waltz through the brass thicket of the trees.

i remember you as this boy who wore sneakers with year-old mud on them, that always seemed to find himself in the creek by our old elementary school, even years after we had spent our recesses searching through the mud when we knew the adults weren't looking. to me, your eyes were just as blue -- the kind of blue that you fall into, like wells of water surrounded by the dark gray of stone, and your voice was soft and uneven, a stutter like careful strings on a violin, but the birds were different.

they were afraid.

they were afraid of you in the way only those familiar with survival are, that know how to survive before they are born, somewhat like those who know the smell that comes before an impending storm.

i was not afraid.

what i really dream about is the wood from your porch splintering into my legs when you lean over mine, a whisper that comes from your mouth like the wind that comes from the rolling clouds of a storm passing, that comes from the river by the cemetery we grew up by, the kind only we knew, with thousands of old dead friends to play by.

but these chills are incredible, indescribable, impossible, just as they are familiar.  

adults say teenagers are too dumb to understand the concept of death, that they only know it like those things we see on tv, that we hear on the news, an old affliction that the old and the sick had caught like a disease. but even then, i knew what i wanted.

my skin ached. goosebumps came over me with a shiver, the hair on the back of my neck standing up like blowing leaves, like every cell in my body was trying to escape your lips when they touched my ear, so soft they made me want to scream like those girls in those old black and white horror movies we used to watch when our parents weren’t looking. but i didn't.

i sought it.

if your words were death, then i wanted it like i wanted to walk into traffic, and they did come like complete, total, cataclysmic, traffic.

but this danger was only noise, impenetrable, strangely holistic, and i felt it crash through my bones a hundred of thousands of miles per hour. i only know this because i remember it all only the way i shouldn't, in the way you think you've made it all up because it just felt so good, and i could say nothing—absolutely nothing—because a breath burst from my lungs just as fast and as hard, and i fell even deeper into the splinters, so dizzy the trees swam into the sky.

my body was a highway, and you took it with this secret.

it rumbled in your chest, violent, as contradictory and unholy and holy as sex in the dark.

it was.

you said this as your eyes climbed the trees, the blue flickering red like tiny flames.

“burn them.”

burn them, you said.
a letter to a boy who won't read it
full title: a letter to a boy who won't read it and a confession to those who won't understand it

people change. a lot. sometimes in ways you wouldn't think.
i know that
when that day comes
i will
wake up

and not the kind of screaming
that you see on TV and in movies

but the silent kind
without all the blood and tired allegory

where you open your eyes
and you’re so dizzy
you’re expecting the world
to be turned on its side,

the TV to still be on
from the night before
with all these pretty women
staring back at you
like they can see
like stone crashing through
your bones,

that their voices
will somehow find you
through the darkness,

that their pale arms
will find your skin,
their fingers sweet
metal bars,

but you stare
and stare
and stare

and all you can ever see
is the static reverberating
like smoldering leaves,
its voice burning colder
than anything else.
a big thank you to anyone involved in me getting my second daily deviation yesterday i know i'm not as active on deviantart as i used to be, but these sorts of things still mean a lot to me. it gave my poetry the most validation it has gotten in a long time. 

just a side note - i'm usually on tumblr nowadays. my personal account is here: and my poetry here you don't have to follow them. i'm just letting you know they're there if you're interested in doing so.

nowadays i'm really working on my prose, if anything. i've been writing a lot of non-fiction and have been doing a lot of editing/copy editing for college, for one, but i have also been working on my own novel. . . as some of you know. . . for a long time. but, you know, it's coming along. and it's the kind of thing i write for my own sanity, anyway. BUT if you are interested in reading a bit of the first draft, it's here….

but that's it. thanks again : )
there’s this boy i work with.
he is five.

he wears long sleeves
and shorts with holes in them
that are only kept together with
small clothespins and thin threads.

his hair is always cut close
to his skin, though his bangs are left
just long enough so it covers his eyes
and i know no one can see them.

but i always watch him.
only sometimes i will allow myself
to watch over someone else, even though i know
this boy will only continue to follow me.

he asks me to play,
he asks me to speak,
and sometimes, he even asks me
to hold his hand.

they are always cold and strong,
with calluses and chipped nails
that dig rough into my skin,
and his voice is always hard ice,
roaring like pounding hail through a storm.

but most of the time, he fights.

he hurts the other boys. they are small
and they fight over pieces of chalk,
over shovels and pales and who gets to play
on the swings, but they throw punches
like i’ve seen adults do.

sometimes i look at them
and i see the ripple of muscle,
the way their tiny voices
grow deep as they raise in volume,
their tongues flicking in anger
like they are pulling tiny triggers.

but nothing compares to when
he tells me, “i was angry. i wanted to hurt them,”
and for the moment he takes his eyes off
the ground, and i can see them through
his hair.

they say those you love
tell what they want to say
by what is left in their eyes,

and i’ve seen these eyes enough
to know they do not mean to say

these eyes are the color of
violent ocean waves, the kind that come
before a storm, that are lit dark
under the lack of sun and the constant,
yet far, emotionless beat of a lighthouse.

they only want me to drown with them.

this is why, when he holds my hand too tight,
when his hailstorm threatens to hover over me,
when the other boys cry as we walk away,
i do not ask him to let me go.

i can only imagine him drowning when i do so.


Artist | Student | Literature
United States
i grew up just outside of new york city but am currently go to school in boston.
i write poetry and the occasional short story. i'm currently working on a tetralogy called the mads manifesto.
don't take me seriously.

my goodreads

personal tumblr

writing tumblr

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LadyLincoln Featured By Owner Aug 23, 2014  Hobbyist Writer
Happy birthday :heart:
(1 Reply)
Thegamer499 Featured By Owner Aug 23, 2014  Hobbyist General Artist
Happy birthday!
(1 Reply)
Tangled-Tales Featured By Owner Aug 23, 2014  Hobbyist Writer
(1 Reply)
MissEridanAmpora Featured By Owner Aug 23, 2014
happy birthday doll ;)

Congratulations on not dying this year!

(1 Reply)
Sammur-amat Featured By Owner Aug 23, 2014   General Artist
happy birthday, sweet pea! :iconlachoirplz:
(1 Reply)
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