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BurialThe mud caked my fingernails.
My hair slipped from inside my hood,
blowing across my face.
The wind shifted the leaves on the ground
a collage of yellow, red, and brown
and the earth crawled around me.
The rain fell hard
and the wet grass grabbed at my ankles.
The hole I dug with my own two hands
was between two trees where you and I
used to sit and talk about superheroes,
videogames and high school bullies.
I thought the location fit.
I pulled from my coat pocket
the heart necklace you gave me
the year before you said goodbye
and drove off, leaving skid marks
on the vacant street.
I dropped my heart into the hole
and buried it.
As I walked away,
the rain still pouring,
I picked the mud from inside my fingernails.
the art of lying"I'm fine" she smiles sweetly
The harsh hissing of underlying truth
Falling on deaf ears and blind eyes
Null and void save the stinging of niggling doubt
Her arms are faint pink and purple ladders
X marks the spot on sunburned shoulders
And there are scratches on her thighs where kitty dug his claws in
(He does so love to sit there)
The cuts on her knees and shins are from adventurous climbs
High into the branches of a big old tree
You want to know why she smiles?
The answer lies in her ladder arms
And the crisscrosses on bright red shoulders
And the claws on her cat
And the twigs on the trees
It starts and ends with one beautifully ugly word
That tumbles off your tongue like a stale fruit rollup
Stabs you in the heart with obedient ignorance
And leaves you broken-boned on the floor
It shoves you down on your knees
With merely a hushed whisper of "but I love you"
And she is no stranger to this foreign term
She is no amateur at the art of
catharsis.oh no not another dead body, i am so sick of digging graves, i am so sick of wearing black, i am so sick of other people crying about the loss of someone they never really noticed was alive in the first place, i am so sick of this but you aren't allowed to beg off a funeral, you aren't allowed to take leave of mourning, that's not how this works, there are standards to be upheld, expectations to follow, someone else's footsteps to tread in like they aren't the wrong size, the wrong pace, the wrong way, i am so sick of going the wrong way, of not being allowed to own up to being lost, of being lost, of not being allowed to own up, oh no, not another dead body, but we aren't allowed to own up, quick, pretend to mourn, pretend to be sad, pretend to cry at the funeral and no one will ever know you didn't give a damn, pretend to give a damn, you can fake anything if you try hard enough, you have to try, it's all about trying, i am so sick of trying, this is all so trying, were you trying to
mad houseyou are a moan that
crawls like a tarantula
down the hall to my room.
papier-mâché girls dance
in the garden, wild women, burning
with their dreams of becoming
skeletons, and through their
parchment skin i can see their
wasted hearts struggling to beat.
a dead boy visits me at night.
i lie rigid in my bed, paralysed
while he stands by my window, white
as the underbelly of a fish,
still dripping with water
from the ocean that stole his life.
and i can still feel their hands
as cold and rotten as the hands
of a corpse,
the prick in my backside while
they fill me with their venom.
they rape me of my life
and i hear someone wail
in the darkness, as godforsaken
as the howl of a dog who has discovered
its owner dead.
i vomit and it comes out black
my heart is the ugliest part
of me, but no one will ever see...
and these walls,
oh sometimes these walls scream so loud.
dutifuli used to make boys light houses but your ocean eyes are what keep me on land.
i used to use boys as an excuse to not eat but our sex makes me ravenous.
you are the music that i sing in the shower, you are the ink that my fountain pen
salivates onto virgin parchment.
you are the kind of boy i thought of back when i had reasons to wish. every dried
up dandelion i exploited; when i closed my eyes i was blowing kisses to you.
the v your stomach makes when your hungry is enticing but i like running my
fingers over your distended abdomen after a meal we made together.
you are the reason why i do not need to carry a thesaurus around with the rest
of my 'baggage'. your pallid skin is a palette to me, bashfully vapid, and i take
advantage of the canvas. i leave finger trails and bite marks to remind you of me.
and then there are the days where i amstranded on my island of anxiety, i always know you are willing to listen to me cry.
and when there are days where i am
selfishit takes a b
night shiftnight shift.
red lights. some
green. mostly red.
car pulls up.
buzz. window rolls down. man
leans out. red lights flash in his
black shades. no eyes.
"how much?" he says.
"fifty," says i.
frown. "i got ten."
chin comes up. stubborn. stupid. "i
don't do nothin' less than fifty."
sneer. "you ain't worth that much, honey."
window rolls up. car pulls away. more
cars will come. more men with
night shift goes on.
night shift don't never end.
what you don't knowAccusations strike like the tail o' nines
Lacerations upon my heart
A flayed soul screaming
Crimson streamers celebrating
You don't know where I bleed
You can't see beyond your pain
A lifeless puppet of sinew strings
I care not to dance again
Too often these steps are taken
Too little is ground once gained
You don't know this tune I sing
You can't see the notes for the melody
It's a game of you said, I said
Pawns upon an ebon board
Check and checkmate, no escape
Until we both topple down
You don't know that I've lost
You can't see victory is a hollow grave
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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