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Broken Hearts Still BeatingThe lightning-spliced sky illuminates my bedroom
and I'm crouched in the corner, embraced by the dark,
thinking of how there could have been a chance
for me to wake up next to you, your emerald eyes
webbed with emotion, your body limp
from jerking in your sleep. I imagine ruffled sheets,
broken lamps, and permeating heat.
I think of how we could have jogged together
along roadsides and doubled over with thorns
in our ribs at your feeble attempts to whistle Dixie.
I'm collapsing inward, reminiscing on the truths
I should have told you and how every boy I pass
has your face, your dark brown hair, your lips.
And I cry. Oh, do I cry.
I saw you hunched over one day, exhausted
from nightmares, sipping Gatorade and reciting
poetry about there being beauty in decay,
and I couldn't help but think that you
were living proof of that phenomenon.
I wanted to cry for you and tell you about that time
a lady ran into me at Barnes & Noble and I'd had
no earthly idea that I was alive until she turned ar
dear deathdear death,
i went to visit my wife today, in the building where i have to breathe through my mouth because it smells like a slaughter house. i don't buy her flowers anymore, because they are almost as dead as she is and giving them to her is like putting flowers on a grave. i don't buy her chocolates, because she'd just vomit them up in a shit-brown wave and she never had much of a sweet tooth anyway. no, i just go by myself and hope that it's enough.
today i realised how much her eyes scare me. they used to be green. mossy green, not emerald green like they say in books, because in real life nothing could possibly be that perfect. but in the sunlight they used to sparkle and that never failed to steal the breath from my body. she always said that her eyes were her best feature. she never could see how beautiful the rest of her was.
her new eyes look like giant cigarette burns. whenever i'm sitting at her bedside in the pink chair with the stuffing leaking out like blobs of decomposin
reverse god complexi wait sometimes for
god to present himself
in the way
i would prefer him
but who am i to
call out god
when he has
alas, i am no god
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
SylviaSylvia made it past her sixteenth birthday without ever touching a drop of alcohol. She had never been to a party. She had never done drugs. Your classic “good girl,” she desired perfection, saw her future as something she needed to work towards, and enjoyed the act of learning to a point that she was often teased. As she drove home from taking her ACTs, she knew that part of her identity was about to change. She didn’t, however, know how drastic this change would be.
Mary and Grace had been trying to drag her to a party since freshman year. But it was Elliot who finally convinced her.
“Come on, babe, it’ll be fun. It’s the beginning of spring break, you’re almost done with all your tests, and I’ll be off to college before you know it.”
She finally agreed to go to a spring break party hosted by one of Elliot’s friends, Lars. Sylvia had felt compelled to impress Elliot since day one. She was all for being yourself, but she was
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
when somebody says your name for the last timeone
one of the first things she learns is that ghosts cannot cry.
this does not stop her from trying.
there's a house.
not a home. barely a building. just beyond the part of town parents don't let their kids near after dark.
it's empty. it's been empty for as long as anyone can remember.
in the upstairs bedroom, there's a queen-sized bed and a chest of drawers and a chandelier. they are covered in dust and cobwebs. they are rotting. they are bug-infested and falling to pieces.
in the upstairs bedroom, there's a girl.
she wears a long, white dress, and a shroud of grief, and a bullet wound in her chest.
she is rotting. she is sorrow-infested and falling to pieces.
in the right light, you can see straight through her.
one of the first things she learns is that even if she could cry, it wouldn't make much difference.
no one can hear her.
no one can see her.
no one even knows that she's there.
he runs away, and she isn't quick enough to follow him. she doesn't know if she can haunt
you and i are just walking disastersif your skeleton is home
if your ribcage is the fireplace in the living room
of a house weathering out a storm
then you are haunted
your bones are haunted
there are ghosts howling down your chimney throat
there are ghosts rattling chains in the hall of your spine
the electricity running through your veins is flickering
if your skeleton is home
then you are a haunted house
you are dark and uninviting
even in broad daylight
the doors of your kneecaps slam shut
without the help of wind
your organ furniture goes flying
the ghost in the fireplace of your ribcage
howls into the chimney of your throat
and you are haunted
you are home to more ghosts than you have room for
if your skeleton is home
if your cracked and splintered bones are home
then it's dark and uninviting, even in broad daylight
and you are haunted, you are haunted, you are haunted
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.
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scheinbar is a much-loved and well-known deviant. Just one look at her gallery, filled with enchanting photography, will have you mesmerized. A deviant for over 7 years, Christiane can always be found posting inspirational features as well as regularly commenting on other deviations and encouraging and empowering her fellow deviants. We are inspired and insist that you too stop by and congratulate ... Read More