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the elephant in my bed.oblivious to the constraints of time,
january snowflakes wooed the wind with their waltz:
one two-three, one two-three.
still naive, our footsteps
were not afraid to disturb
our glittering white universe.
wordlessly, questions were asked and answered
so quickly that we soon became
both the matador and the bull.
my door was painted red,
and we tangoed against Time itself,
a euphoric cacophony of beautiful maybes.
shoes toppled like domino tiles.
neighbors awoke with bleeding hearts.
keys lay abandoned in the door.
- i'm leaving in july.
- tell me in june.
Ace of HeartsTruth: Someday, some boy will come and ask me for your hand
Tears painted my cheeks with rediscovered disillusionment as I listened to the song my dad had chosen for our Father-Daughter dance at my future wedding. An innocent onlooker, upon seeing me, might have smiled and wistfully sighed at the sight of my tears, mistaking them for tears of joy, but that couldn't have been farther from the truth: each word pierced my skin like the corners of my oversized diamond, reopening wounds and creating scars I was trying to ignore but could never forget.
Lie: But I won't say "yes" to him unless I know
As my first serious boyfriend, when he proposed five months into our relationship and a month before my eighteenth birthday, I thought he was the fairytale ending I'd wanted my entire life. When I called my parents that night to deliver the news, they were speechless. It was only after I assured them that, of course, we were going to wait
if you're not first...1.
girl #2, meet girl #3.
shes beautiful, charming, and witty:
everything a girl should be.
oh, and one other thing:
shes an exact replica of girl #1.
(girl #2 is agonizingly aware of this small fact,
but BOY, of course, would never admit to it.)
mirror, mirror, on the wall
whos the fairest one of all?
ah yes, girl #1.
the perfect girl.
the unattainable girl.
(girl #2 has wasted too much time
waiting for girl #1s nose to grow,
that humanity isnt all it seems.
but the case was dismissed
when the Defense never showed up.)
girl #3 is proof that
girl #2 never had even a chance.
like a child wishing on a star,
girl #2 was only
a pleasant idea
a lackluster experiment
a wish swallowed by Reality.
(girl #2 thinks Reality
should come with a disclaimer.)
2 is not such a bad number, girl #2 thinks.
2 is unique.
2 can stand alone.
2s silhouette is half of
pulsates, exhaling chasms in its wake,
knotted intestines and still-beating heart
boil, boil, toil, and
blood spatter silhouettes
at a crime scene left unsolved.
because I believe in you."Miss K.,
I have a question.
It's about a comment
you wrote on my report card.
Maybe it was a mistake.
I don't remember what it was,
but it was really really nice.
Why did you write that?
I'm failing your class.
Failing really bad.
You probably wish I wasn't even your student.
So why would you say that?
Teachers never say nice things about me
when I fail their classes.
I just don't understand."
because if I don't believe in you,
the fat lady's songyou cloak your sins in wrapping paper
made of seductive words,
devising a cold-blooded parody
of the classic disney fairytale.
(but you fail to see
that your jacket is made of cellophane
and i promise that the dawn will come
when the plastic toxins have conquered your skin
and everyone will see into
[and consequently, through] you.)
you convince yourself that your absence is noticed,
that one day, he'll realize the oh-so-terrible mistake he made,
and call you, begging for another chance,
just so you can shrug your shoulders,
flutter your eyelashes tsktsk,
and tell him oh darling, you're too late.
(but you fail to acknowledge
that you've already been forgotten
and i promise that you'll grow old
waiting for atonement.)
you paint yourself as a hopeless romantic:
betting it all when the stakes are high,
leaping into the unknown
all in the name of love, of course.
(but you fail to divulge
that your paintbrush is tainted with disease,
your bets are laced
bibbity bobbity boomonce upon a time
i imagined my life
as a fairytale.
i've never been
the damsel-in-distress type
who awaited rescue.)
instead, i was the magic.
i was the Fairy Godmother
who could do anything
as long as someone
...but lately it feels
close to midnight
and my heart weighs
pumpkin-heavy in my chest,
in glass-slipper hopes.
i've been waiting
for Cinderella to come home
and remind me that
fairytales do exist.
i've been listening
for her footsteps in the doorway,
but each passing second explodes
fireworks of glass.
i think i lost you somewhere in between
the cracks of our fingers:
our own makeshift willow basket was never meant to sustain water
but was only destined to weep like its mother.
maybe your hands grew too large for mine,
swelling like flesh around a broken bone.
or perhaps my hands were the perpetrators
and shriveled while dancing alone in the rain,
tears fusing with those of Heaven itself
and recycling back into the indifferent soil:
my final destination.
sometimes i lie in the trenches,
soaking up my own helplessness
and pray to the god of bastards
that youll come and finish the job already.
but you never come
and all im left with
are stains i cannot remove.
(some days, though, i know i am not scrubbing hard enough.)
i think i lost you somewhere in between
snow cone-flavored dreams
and apathy-colored nightmares.
our sweat still mingles within the lips of my sheets,
but i'd rather let the salt of my own sanity
ashesyou made a list
of every storm bearing your name,
then you set it afire.
flames like autumn leaves
carried the tear-stained memories into oblivion
dancing to the unsteady beat of a victory prelude
(or was it a death march?)
until nothing remained of it but ashes.
mere ashes, swept under the rug
-- ironically screaming WELCOME HOME --
but ashes always show their faces
when you least expect it
...or at least when they are called out to play.
and play they will,
flirting with the remnants of Taylor Hanson and Santa Claus,
who aimlessly float like Bobble Head figurines
inside the murky waters
of the childhood memories you prayed to God would never find you again.
want some candy? they'll taunt.
some flowers? some beauty? some love?
of course you do.
in one moment's time,
one blinding flash of red,
you find yourself willing to forget everything you once learned
to invest in another lottery ticket from hell.
--but it said that "everyone is a
Parallel UniverseThe streetlights pass by in a haze one after the next
Like military drones standing reluctantly in line preparing to salute
My eyes are glued to the road yet they reflect nothing but a hollow void;
A seemingly more desirable destination than my own chamber of dread
I'm miles away in that bastard land of make-believe
Where I won't have to drink to numb the pain corroding my heart
Won't have to sedate my pounding brain and crumbling sense of self
A place where the torment just sort of...
..drifts away with the burning clouds at sunset
Then all too quickly the sound of metal crushing, twisting, contorting
Pain and despair mixed with Jack and Jim overwhelm my eardrums
My life and my insides rip apart in steady, painfully precise synchrony
My vision nothing but a blur as voices hover with all their taunting
'I told you so's and 'could have been's
Launch me across the universe and all those that lie parallel
And land me right back in this heaping pile of rubble and stinking sulfur
While I na
winter's childfeathered grey and frail
as smoke; this girl
(she's only seventeen)
spoke in perfect fourths
and whispered thoughts
of winter's burden and
an autumn's fall
a delicate crystal snowflake
child; this girl
(she looks so young)
smiled with bruises in her eyes and
promises on her tongue but
all who chanced a look
and carried on
what a shame that
such a girl
(she'll never grow old)
who dreamed of catching the
fallen in her pocket and
nursing them back
to the sky
was bound to the earth
with spider-silk chains
and could never reach
the simple sound of his name is a grievance
but you, on the other hand, are a writer
a glorious indulgence
notorious for not giving a damn that he doesn't
pay attention to the curve of your hips,
or the way your furniture is placed,
or the pictures on the wall
(and if he did he would notice
that not one of them was of him)
the little things aren't important anymore.
he tells you, "it is impossible to please
everyone so please yourself first"
and you tell him,
"you should try taking your own advice"
but he never does.
he doesn't believe in god because he knows,
he just knows that he won't make it into heaven
and right now,
right now you're scared to touch him
to put your arms around him
because what if you do touch him and
what if his brittle bones finally collapse?
you don't believe in god either,
but you often catch yourself
praying for him to get better.
you look at him
as he tries to telepathically communicate
how fucking sorry he is.
Just DanceHere's to a moment of nostalgia. I'm skimming through pages of ballet terminology and admiring the pictures associated with the movements. I find myself drawn to the faces of each ballerina. Some seem to be in no pain, as though the movement they are captured creating is second nature. Others don't hide the pain quite so well, and my heart reaches out to them. I long to tell them that it's okay not to be prefect, and that all that matters is the beauty of the art they create and the story they portray. But they know better. I know better.
My brain is suddenly racked with invading memories I've kept stashed away and hidden for so long. As painful as they are, I succumb to the invasion. I've returned to that day in the hospital. I still vividly remember my conversation with a ballerina from the San Francisco Ballet. She spoke of her once-successful ballet career, and as I listened with much intensity I could not grasp why she didn't miss it. She didn't miss dance. She stated without hesi
lounge: 1Rachel wakes, the crossing-over just as gentle as the previous night's passage. The sheets lay rumpled and cold beside her. Wednesday isn't a baking day but he's already gone. She doesn't follow him anymore, tracing his scent down the sidewalks past shady vendors and impenetrable bookstores. The latter is what he seems to like the most, drowning in years of solidified dust. It is bitter and dry to her nose and she can smell it in his hair for days afterward. She stays away.
This place is not her home, but she has been here more often than not these past months--enough to watch a Northwestern winter diminish. Yellow-green shoots have risen up from the perpetually wet earth, signs that someone many years ago thought narcissus and crocus were suitable places between the grass and crumbling brick of the Lounge's courtyard. She watches them over a fresh cup of coffee, letting the aroma extinguish that of the city. Others come and go, greeting her with hands not laden with plates or mugs. Sh
Lets start out as a dream
hidden in-between palm folds,
crushing church steeples
and the finger-wings of butterflies
that would soon fade and rise
with the excitement of big city shine.
The birch trees sway, the paper bark
fraying like stewed meat
as the bone is stripped away.
The night watches him hover,
inching in darkness, white noise & sounds
I once used to confess.
Then things happen: boys, glasses askew
& noise a buzz at being called beauty
full head against thighs. Only clothing left to clutch,
the spread of skin as yet untouched. Time has grown.
Rising to my mothers cheek, I turn
only to give a malignant smile.
A high note sung to seven hundred,
tongues beating stage directions
from hoarse throats & costumes clung.
Take a breath, a whistle through the arch of my fingers
pressed against my lips.
The seams of childhood start to sigh.
Whispers on a starry nightYoung lips stroke the falling stars with whispers.
Starlight words written into secret hearts,
Mated hands molded with his over hers.
Shivers and chills have taken her apart
But he held her close, lips pressed to her ear,
And shattered secrets of the universe.
Galaxies twining over this love's premiere
Are all that is left of this warm love thirst.
"I taste the moonlight on your kiss," he sighed.
She said, "I'll breathe summer into your hair."
A breath of assent was his soft reply.
She spent dreams on him in fresh winter air:
All they knew was that tonight lived but once
So they would keep singing this sad love dance
Monologue.s.Curtains draw: it's 4 o' clock and
the stage echoes with the sound of hearts beating
I can hear you breathe
again; your breath seething
beneath my skin. Your
whispers fill the night with alkali-ash
and I am
heavy; heavy and
Your words weigh me,
and crack my sulphur lips
I never asked for this.
There's a movement,
a balance shifting,
and the darkness begins to lift
like a veil.
The Other stirs and
I never answered: you
never let me just kept me
locked up here, lodged somewhere inside
your ribcage, feeding me
on blood and bones,
acidic sticks and stones,
am left fighting for air,
But now it's 4 o'clock and
your electric eyes cry moonshine, and
my heart beeps noisy beats
with your own.
(beat beat - pause)
can you hear it?
The stage opens up, as we step
into the spotlight. Our fingers lock
together - we are the key.
Anagrams in the airThieved
swirling with apiaries,
as I wait outside
If I could
say anything at all,
Id tell you
how you loom
inside those delta-pyramids
that snack on your pupils.
Id tell you
Id bleed out
the worlds cathedrals
to say anything
that sparked a star
in the quiet knock
of your night.
from their wallpapers,
until my nails, none,
lift their wings
and give them flight.
inside the highest
we can never be
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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