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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.
what humans do0:00
she met him when she was fifteen, stupid, and willing to do anything to get out of her own head. it was winter, new snow sticking to the ground in snowbanks - like a naked blanket, cold on cold with ice. houses were lined up on the streets, chimneys blaring smoke, colors sticking out against the sky's dull grays. cars rolled by, marking the streets all with the same, parallel tracks, like fingerprints with chains attached. thick exhaust fills her senses.
he seemed weird to her. not because of his cocky, laid-back appearance, but because of the complete fresh and virgin ardor he gave her. it wasn't that kind of sense you get when you're born - the average, cliche smell, taste, touch, sight - but when you pass the age of twelve or thirteen.
he was the untouchable, the near-unforgivable. the sweet fruit to adolescence. the thing you taste when you want something new - lips on lips, tongues tying, tugging on piercings - the umph to the skinny jeans, the belt loops
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
binding ropes, pointed sheets
and careful skies- i have all the oceans,
new days, richest nights and brightest
when i have the feeling
of the roughest rocks
under the soles of my feet-
the wood and splinters in my toes,
the cold metal to my arms,
the most frozen of fingers
pressed to my back.
arms are poison when they're numb;
ever is different when you can feel.
leaning, i have the air against my skin,
the deepest of skies breathing down my neck,
the poison of cradling eyes.
maybe being human is knowing how to feel alive;
maybe being human is knowing when to be alive.
black and white, knight eyes, shivers
seeking home in my skin-
breathing, i have everything-
even with the trains crashing
in my chest, black seeking
the corners of my eyes
and a slow, dancing conscious,
like magic, we don't only have tomorrow -
we seek tomorrow.
printblue windows, he says
why can't i have all the blinds,
choosy birds and clouded eyes
too wide open, he knows
but the winged fingers, beaked lips
and beaming eyes
are all too tempting-
why can't he have it all,
the rivered skies and blurred
whites, the flaking palms and
kaleidoscope eyes, branched feet
and lipped suns,
but the newsprint says no,
too far from glass it says, and he knows,
but blue windows lie.
hollowfalling in love
is like plucking ribs, and
each time you've fallen
you're another bone closer
to cardiac arrest
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
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,
Something About GenderI'm not a girl
Because according to everyone else I'm unable to be one
Because girls are supposed to be spineless
Supposed to be weak
Supposed to be small
Supposed to be quiet
So I must be a boy
Because that's what the world sees in me
It sees courage
It sees passion
It sees anger
It sees a swinging crowbar
But I can't be a boy
Because according to everyone else I'm not male
Because I have breasts
I have ovaries
I have a uterus
I have a vagina
So I'm not a girl
But I'm not a boy
I'm too rough but I'm soft
I kick up my heels but sometimes I wear heels
I wear rings but sometimes they're worn on a fist
I sit slouched with my legs open and a knife in my hand
But I'm not a tranny
But I respond to "woman"
And I respond to "boy"
And I can be called "he" and "she" and answer to both
Because I don't know which one I should answer to
Because apparently neither apply
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.
cyclic motioni. every sad story starts with love.
ii. there is you sprawled across the bed
with your ankles tangled in cotton covers
and the golden waves of sunlight
breaking themselves through fissured glass
to drip into your hair like bright honey,
your hands reaching upward
as if they were young birds waiting on wings.
you wept for those flightless, wet-beaked children
anchored helplessly to your wrists
but their hearts were not as weak
as the foreign fist beating in your chest. they collapsed
and only left behind
the impressions of dying constellations
they had scratched beneath your eyelids.
iii. at dusk i watched the night take you in waves, glowing,
and said you were the most beautiful thing
i had ever known.
it was a lie. the want of a thing
is always more beautiful than the thing itself.
these are the quiet things we do not tell--
the secrets touched only in the dark
when hearts are laid open
and everything else forgets to exist.
iv. i whispered that to myself when the last shadow
the culling songi watch the clock shift,
its hands sinking like ships.
every notch in its rope
lowered into the sea of time,
i realise i spend
most of my time
thinking of dying.
i'm going to kill myself.
please stop laughing,
it's only going to make me
do it faster.
and it goes like this:
you pour your hips into mine
and i hold your bones together
like an eggcup of wine.
truth is i fell apart years ago
and you're only talking to
the fragments of a human now.
i feel you on an airplane,
pushing its way into the sky
as a baby does from its womb.
you're leaving me behind
on crumbling ground,
faster than even you
could have dreamed.
i become an ant,
a segmented being
divided in three-
where i am,
where you are,
where we were.
and it goes like this:
you leave me like dirt
under your fingernails,
and i hope it makes you sad
to drive down my street
to see my house
empty of me.
i want it to make you ache,
like your concerns
for yourself over me
what happens is this:
so i don't remember how to write
poetry because it's pretty
and that's the last thing i feel,
and i can't write stories
because they're all happening to me
though i've forgotten how to live
can't stop dying
but i can't stop breathing
just look for a second
this is what i'm dealing with-
i'm feeling too much
all the salt in the ocean;
i'm not pausing as i feel
my breath stuttering
like my heartbeat
in my chest,
so i wonder if i have
or if i just miss you
enough to put a hole in my chest,
and i wonder if i could do it myself
with a knife or if it's from
i'm so in love it hurts
but i don't think it could not hurt
because it's not like
you're close enough
to help me sew this wound shut;
all i know is i keep looking
at all these clips of poetry like newspaper,
tracking my life and giving me
all these little annotations
on the days my heart didn't feel like
sometimes i feel like a crime
would shake me up
like maybe if
what i cannot understandwhy is it
that you would walk
to the ends of earth
to make your lover happy,
to hear him whisper your name
in the shroud of the dark,
to put a smile on his face,
why is it
to want to make your lover shake,
to press your hands against his chest
as he separates you both
and unites your bodies
in black and white,
why is this filth,
why is it
to show that you are in love?
the sickness of breathing emptinesstoday:
and my god, there's no way to pretty that up. pain is not beautiful, it is painful. use your common sense. there is no glory in suffering, there is no sparkle to sacrifice. hurt is hurt is hurt. and you can't take it for someone else, no matter how hard you try.
what i hate is that you're leaving. like, a thousand miles away worth of leaving. and don't tell me that distance means nothing to the heart, because it does: enough to make you break me before you kill me. honestly, i wonder which is worse. honestly, i'd probably rather you kill me because i've broken enough times that i don't have much left to break.
what i hate more is that i love you. i have fought harder against it than i've fought against anything else in my life, i fucking swear to god. i didn't even consider that i could love you for months. an
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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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