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ephemeralthere's something about the
the way we keep
to a sleepless night
with the tap of a train
under our feet.
the way we end
with the close of day,
the oranges and reds lingering
while the sleep
tickles our eyelids.
the way we hold each other
in our hands, knuckles tingling
and skin pounding
with each new touch and breath.
the kind of thing that lives
with everything in the way we speak, the careful whispers
in the crooks of our shoulders,
quick in patters of rain, but crawling in droplets,
a haunting reminder of what we are-
everything on my tonguethere are ghosts on my lips-
sweet smelling, they are
like sugar. a vulgar, sweet
not really kisses, i know,
but bitter as kisses, i think,
coffee and eyes on eyes
trailing like cities,
caffeine on the folding sheets
rapping to our corneas,
dilating. craving to skin.
but sweet they are
like drifting fingers
on sailing nails.
but this lying- it brings
bitter salts under my tongue
and the inner folds of my lips
when i speak.
it puts the saltiest of oceans
i know, i say. i know.
her, she says, no. no.
they are only ghosts.
cancer handshoney, you should have known
i'm one of those tasteful girls
with all those tongues hidden
in her bones
and not one of those watered down ones
wasting their time with fake, ersatz tastes,
but the pilled, the ones that can be
and can't kill
with cancer hands
dear emmalove is a person.
he is a man with cocoa skin, writes with weak hands and a strong mind, tuned ears and speaks in a placid voice. it sounds of ivory, smells of coffee, and is music in a silent world with unmade beds and the typing of keys, the quiet hum of black and white re-runs speaking to the crook of his back.
he is a boy with fine, chapped lips and a thin cigarette between the thin cracks of his teeth, a being seen in dimmed lights and close things under stars, the ripple of cars passing by, the tapping of cooling engines. lit, green eyes under night sky hair with a starry shine.
she is a girl with fireflies to dawn skin, a burned nose and pale scared knuckles. she is speaking under the monotones, cities of skinny, magazines she curls in balls at the foot of her bed when she sleeps, with rose cheeks and the hiding of doe, scar eyes.
she is a girl with vertebrae fingertips, cracked red fingernails of resin; one with bracelet wrists and rings on her lips. the type that has a naked f
don't make me writein a world where
the world is but wind
i am the writer,
my fingers eating at
and you are the paperweight
holding my drunk hands down
in blueblinking eyes,
why can't i have all the smiles
of dustened piano keys
breathing roses and parting lips,
the closing me with the folds
of the blues in concave,
rocking eyes and cradled
you are the burning touch,
the burn to the touch
when you're under my skin
i don't know what beautiful
means anymore, what beautiful
because art won't take me back, i say
it drowns me under covers and sheets
and burns my fingertips with all of
the magazine covers, pillows and mourning
and leaves your coffee-stained skin
perfect eyesi have the perfect woman, he said,
glass bodies all shown in her eyes
shining, oh shining.
she doesn't even see me, he said,
she only sees blues and pales and fats,
and sex and sex and oh, sex.
she tells me
i wanna be like barbie,
i just want to be like barbie.
i don't care if i'm made of plastics
or silicones and fakes and fakes and fakes,
i just want eyes.
no, not bodied eyes. not flesh eyes.
fragmentsi smell of sleeplessness and lubricant.
it is three thirty-six in the morning
and i am still choking on your semen.
i created an ocean twice over
and birthed a volley of hot breaths,
i built stone walls and broke them down
when you cross your ankles
around my hips
i know you want me close
and my heart swells.
i am writing beautiful one liners lately
hoping enough fragments
can form from the body i am missing
and create a (w)hole
you can love,
so can i just say,
i love you.
i want to say it until i break,
until i bring the seas
crashing to your feet,
drowning me in you.
i feel unsafe with these words
tangling themselves on my tongue,
promising never to be spoken
but losing themselves in the evergreen forest
growing in my mind.
i let go.
i am in your arms and sharing your breath;
your chin is not smooth as it rubs against my neck.
i am every heartbeat discordant in our chests,
every trail left behind by fingertips.
i am several pieces of a person,
shrapnel from an explosion,
melatonini scared you into saying you love me.
i am two pills of melatonin,
i am a mouth drier than the sun.
i scared you like a snake,
a rattler wrapped round your ankle,
a python about the perimeter of your neck.
i made you cry.
i heard your throat
swallowing your sadness.
i am sorry but not sorry enough.
i choked on my words,
i gasped for air
like a fish on the shore.
you don't love me when i am a monster,
you love me when i laugh.
i am sorry my smile
doesn't shine like the waters
i am too grey
for the joy
you could bring me.
blindingi haven't woven words
from beautiful thread in
ages, time creeping toward forever
on the digital glow
of the clock like ivy.
i feel the ache
of tired limbs
struck in air like damaged trees;
while the world stood still
the men like moths
migrated to me
like i was their moon.
not even i
can erase the stains
left on my skin
by the touch of the rain;
not even i
can remember to smile
like the sky remembers
the heaviest aura
swims like cuttlefish
when another's body
radiates heat like the sun
and i realise that i,
Dancing With Dreams'I'm back.'
The fragile silence collapsed. Slowly, the Other looked up, 'I thought... I thought you'd gone....'
'For longer...' Came the murmured reply.
The Speaker swallowed, 'I'd never leave you.'
'Then where did you go?' asked the Other, indignation making cold words hot.
'I went to chase that happy ending,' answered the Speaker, 'I danced with all the dreams in the world and tried to discover perfection.'
An icy glare, 'So, what did you find...?' The question was bitter.
'I realised that the dreams I danced with were mere imitations of you and I brought my happy ending back in a box.' The Speaker held out a small wooden container.
Taking it, the Other opened the box, 'It's empty.'
A small nod, 'My happy ending. It's you.'
so this weekendso my friend, he tells me he doesn't drink. he tells me he has respect for himself and knows well enough that if he did, he would unravel like a spool of yarn and make decisions he'd regret because he wouldn't remember them in the first place.
what i didn't tell you was that he's a little more than just my friend, what i didn't tell you was that he was drunker than a bum in the alley on friday night; what he didn't tell me was that he he found a new heart to call home, so i wrung my hands like a telephone until i resisted the urge to call home, too.
so my friend, you know, the one who's a little more than a friend, the one who uses my body like a piece of paper and wraps my wrists like christmas packaging, he didn't mean to drink. no, i know that sounds silly, but he didn't, honest. someone put a little something in his soda and somehow he woke up with three girls under his blanket and some hickeys somehow lining his neck like some warm wint
his mother in readingit might've been the weight
she gained in her
hips and stomach
her only child,
or the heft of responsibility
brought on by jobs and bills
and eviction notices,
but she wasn't beautiful
some key element
left her skin empty
and let it sag
and slump like her shoulders.
she looked like wet laundry
hung like papier mache
streamers dragged down
by a cold summer rain.
it choked the life out of her
i can see it in her eyes
in her face
she just sits in front of the television
she doesn't feel love anymore-
telling a story that has no end,
breaking her heart just to feel again-
there is a big nothing
where love should be.
Making History"What do I mean to you?"
She was sitting there, wearing that dress that made her look like a Thursday night just before a long weekend, and a smile on her lips that could have confused the Mona Lisa herself.
"What do I mean to you?"
It was not like she had to repeat herself. It's just that he needed to find an answer that would find its way to her thrice broken heart.
"What do I mean to you?"
And since the third time's the charm, he opened his mouth and let her know.
"You aren't pretty.
You aren't lovely.
You aren't any of the things that make the world go around.
You aren't a doll, you never do what you're told.
You aren't a listener, and you talk too much."
Her face crumbled and she turned away, long hair falling over her face like a curtain. And then, a soft voice, like a single light in a dark room, found its way into her broken heart.
"What you are, is the kind of girl who is beautiful.
What you are, is the kind of girl who is unique.
What you are, is the kind of gir
with love.my throat thickens
to echo the songs of sparrows
the shape of your lips
whispered through mine.
when i lift your shirt,
i see the mountains
traipsing over your heart,
i see the valleys
as i trace your stomach.
i am an adventurer,
crossing the fragile east indies,
the spartan deserts of upper africa,
looking for exploration.
my hands are my ships, your skin my ocean.
your waist breaks into your hip,
the shore of foreign lands,
cresting wave and falling tide.
drinking cups of stars,
we are thin nylon skin,
abashed teenage heat
erupting from our cores
and every orifice
as we proclaim our love
for the moon,
from our bodies.
a burialimagine being the first person to discover death.
your lover has passed in her sleep.
you kiss her, you touch her thigh,
you whisper her name and stroke her hair,
you listen to her empty heart
and wonder at her silence
you wore red to her funeral because
that was her favorite color and
the pastor wouldn't let you play
landslide on the speaker system
in the chapel.
the gospel choir watched you like
the trees sighed.
and when the service was over
everyone asked how you were
but no one really wanted to know.
thursday the air tasted like stale apples.
grief holds you in
like a corset
red twine tying you
when you feel like
the wind is stagnant
and all you know
is the heaviness in the breeze
that never comes.
and you can see it now-
she ferments in the ground the way
juice once fermented beneath your
kitchen window in the sun, you are
drunk on her body and
you never meant to be,
and the heat becomes the
only thing that is thorough
and the only thing that mat
real artyou already told me
if a girl were art,
you'd fuck her brains out
but you should know
a bed is a bed
and not a canvas,
her hands are not bristles
but palms and fingers,
her face is not a figure
of pastels, but a face,
and her arms and thighs are
not tools, but arms and thighs
and her voice does not
hold reds, or oranges,
or violets, or greens,
it holds a human.
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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