[x]

in the end, we will always burn.sometimes i wonder what is it like
to be close to things that aren't
meant to be close.

i imagine things with straps at the collar bones, worded at the releasing snap-
cages under shirts a thrashing mess pounding against my temple
alive only when there is hunger playing in our ears so loud
all you can hear is the verbal silence of bone on bone.

SOMETIMES, i imagine it speaks a crescendo of exploding monotones
over leather and the darkness a facade over of our skin:
thighs swollen into what i think is a golden spine under my fingertips,
a strange voice filled with murmurations coming through the black
ready to fill the pregnant silence of

i will have himwith the calluses
of his touch an atlas a
whisper to my skin.

001 i am a whirlwind of
bruised knees
(purple)

an aching heart
(dark blue)

twisted guts
(red)

&
a regret that could
crumble mountains.
(green-green-green)

mayfly in the sinkthe bottle is blue, laced with drops of flies, as i stand, holding it, wishing i were alone. there is no one here i've ever cared to know. here is tripping over flowers like the arms of those around me form a crawspace. a crawspace like in the news gets riddled with congealed blood molding grains of flesh into a mash of deadness. and standing here, pressed against all of that decay, i stumble, kicking my bare feet at dirt and weed flowers.

this outdoor garden smells like pot. hell, i smell like vomit and maybe fear. i remember trying to tear myself away from a wall of flesh, being trapped within it, a fly thrashing against a bottle's sides.

a running poemthe earth wells up with light
at my eternal touch
great springs of it
cool and smooth and gentle
at my rushing face, closed eyes
the swoop of my body
silhouetted against the dark wise ground

the trees celebrate my hair
strands darting and playing
in the alternate shadows
patterned sun drapes me

the slap of my feet
solid and known
freed by the endless forest

self loathing in loveremembering me
before

we began,
sometimes i felt dead

beneath the skin,
diseased, corrupt.

the funny thing
about corruption

is the hybrid
nature of it--

some corruption in
one can overturn

the corruption
in another.

your sickness could
make me well.

one chemical
reacts with another.

things fester in the
depths of relationships,

waiting to flame up in
one or both partners.

beautiful, terrible, ornate
things blooming in us.

some people
destroy themselves

physically, inside
and out.

some people
burn photographs.

destroy past selves.
you're that boy.

you are the sugarwater
in my veins,

the colored tape on
my hospi

the eleventh hourif i could steal people's touches
and hide them in my pockets
i would steal yours-
i would take the kind of burning
that comes only with
the time right before you
officially touch, the friction
of your hands nothing compared
to the ensnarement of your eyes-
that time before you just feel
the breath of his resting upon your shoulder
in a clatter of emotion you know
no one else can understand-
that time where
his lips first open to speak
and you already know what
he is going to say, just
like smolder after rain-
that time between
night and day
and the sun bleeds into the sky
like fire.
i would be prometheus;
i would steal the inferno
from even the most burning gods.
i would be a thief; the thief
of your most burning hearts-
the messenger of
the breath speaking in your lungs-
the harbinger of
the hair standing
on the back of
your neck.
i will be that time where
the only power you can feel
is the burn of two of the most human things
doing the mos

on an envelopewhy do my d's and l's look like yours when i write your name?
it's just been a little carousel,
spinning in pirouettes,
turrets,
neverending,
in my mind all day.

all i know is i'm glad i don't love you.
i don't know why you aren't relationship material-
in all honesty, you are.

i don't know why you treat me like your girlfriend-
kissing my forehead,
holding me gently,
touching me sweetly,
asking to see me,
sixty miles out of the way
in a city i can fall in love,
with no promise of sex-

all i know is i'm glad i don't love you,
& i hope it stays.

wild dayscoffee stains and wrinkled dreams
cigarettes and tea leaves

post-sex morning breath
self-satisfaction
and self-loathing

and the too obvious feeling
that your heart is

somewhere else

039i spent 3.50 on this coffee from some hole in the wall and its not really doing anything to ease me or wake me up from this shaken state i'm stuck in, but its helping my hands keep still or away from trouble.
you're avoiding. talk.
the barrister put two sugars instead of one, its too sweet, but i'll drink it anyway. look. i haven't gotten anything spilled on me yet.
god dammit, just stop it. you need to tell me what the fuck happened last night. there was blood on your shoes and you jumped out of your skin when i touch you even the smallest amount. where did you go?
just. out. with. some friends.
you are so full of shit you know that. your right fingers tapping. that's your tell.
well done. i'm still not telling you, cause its not your business.

bastard and the beast
we were in a room full of china
just you & i
and i said hey, don't you go anywhere
and there was a low growl fornicating in my stomach
your eyes flashed bright on me
and my eyes narrowed on you and
it wasn't about my friend
or the murder
or your psychosis
it was that you left me
by myself
with my own psychosis
sagging heavily from my shoulder
and i hated you
and we were in a room full of china
you & i
your skull felt sweet along my knuckles
your blood tasted sweet on my hungry skin
my honest nature with an angel's head
and a mouth full of slobbering sex
i mounted you
i was moved by your defeat
my eyes sang salt and

dining roomthese walls would swear:
not one candle hasn't wept
for the flame it once held.

the crystals of the chandelier
in the moonlight are breathing
while throwing back the dusk to
windows half obscured with draping.

privacy is a world of our own making
and this, too, is only as real
as the breath pushing through a
receiver of a phone or these words
dying as you read and look away.

a plane does not fall just as any leaf
it fogs the air and screams
for it was birthed of House, not Earth
and fears the dirt, to it unknown.

why measure life in bars of soap
when dirt is more than cheap – it's free
and grime is but a happ

on rust and hungermarbles roll in my mouth,
gathering lint,
the dryness of disuse.

they clatter behind
my teeth
when I try to speak,
clutter absurdly
when I move my
jaw.

my ribs open,
leaf-like,
along a spine;

I am a creature of hinges and screws.

I am a swell of minerals like hymns.

I am a polite impossibility, a
quiet sacrilege, a
dove's breast from which
delicate, thin lines drip.

sonskyni entangle myself in the sky,
grasp and tug on breezes,
expect grass to be as thoughtless
as my skin.

i am complete, here,
amongst the feelings of stones,
as april folds me,
intricate, in its madness.

untitledwith the thunder in my thighs
and the crank in my knuckles,
God tells me i am a pretty girl
with all the best manifestos

when my mouth is closed.

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More from =back-bones

hollowfalling in love
is like plucking ribs, and
each time you've fallen
you're another bone closer
to cardiac arrest

-

general romancemy spine is what's soft
and hands are the cold
being under my skin

lips are the
humming birds
clicking to
the vacant ears,
locking clothes,

and even though
rain does not come
every season, fingers
are the pattering
to my skin

fliesgolden, burning roses
on the freckling
paper night

fritter away

break me purpleyou are the drunken waves
to the earthen ocean
under my soles,
the sick backbone-ache
for the weak

the cage
and the unshed shell
for safe eyes, shattered dams

as i weep

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Submitted: January 19
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the harbinger.

by =back-bones, Jan 19, 2013, 11:01:56 AM
Literature / Poetry / General Poetry / Free Verse

let me feel those areas
your parents don't even know about

flesh and flesh, he said

gun cocked
to the temple of my thighs

hair a coal
and eyes high on powder and hunger.

he said
i am the closest thing to suicide
the god of turned-over sheets
and cold fingers pressed to backs
ghosting ice over all the right places,

that can give those airs
into the oxygen-less areas
in your chest

a gasp that wracks your deepest bones

a drug
to choke on
fingers down
your throat.

contort with me
and break to the breath
of these bones,

your knees to your rib cage
your ankles clicking to mine
arms stolen to spines
your frame lodged with mine

cocked tight
a hum of a barrel
dancing to dead beings

burning with
a bang

awakening.

the harbinger.by =back-bones

Literature / Poetry / General Poetry / Free Verse

©2013 =back-bones

this is actually getting ridiculous
deviantart always gives me MATURE CONTENT IN ADVANCE
IT IS HILARIOUS

*toxic-nebulae Jan 19, 2013 Student Writer

arresting, compelling and shockingly beautiful.

Reply

=back-bones Jan 19, 2013 Student Writer

thank you so much <3

Reply

~BlueBottle95 Jan 19, 2013

:') Absolutely amazing.
-I managed not to cry at this one, just. ^^

.. Deviantart know you so well

Reply

=back-bones Jan 19, 2013 Student Writer

thank you (:
and yeah hahaha they do

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