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homemy sister made a passing comment that this was the first time in our lifetime that we weren't living on a dead-end road. life's full of acrid ironies like that i suppose. instead we live on a road where traffic doesn't stop, pick-ups pound potholes into the asphalt with their day-to-days. and though i can finally rest easy here, the paranoia fleeting, this house is rejecting us. spitting us out and throwing us in the landfill. this place is a house but it isn't a home. there's a jaded loneliness here, the kind that's a hasty deep-cut that makes it hard to breathe but doesn't bleed, just leaves a cicatrix on the base of you, the crux, and rips open time and time again.
ruinsi read your body
like ancient text,
textured on your
carved in the
crook between your
teeth and cheek
that i trace over
with my tongue.
and fuck like
your body is
my mastaba, you are
slicked over in resin-kisses
and my heart
beats in a
on your lips
on your breath.
you taste like
sirens and scurvy.
(don't love her, please)
to seafoam, you
(you're enough for me)
mayi was born two-quarters suicidal
nihilist, dripping carmine
from momma's umb cord.
the rest was
mother rocked me
in the arms of
poetry, and from
that i became
from my body,
a fucking dualist.
i am may
scrap .oo1her kisses taste like
i'm forgetting the fact that
she is a pipe-dream romance.
more than meets the eyethey call her
venomous, cinched together
with a neurotic backbone.
borderline personality disorderi've never been good at making goals or keeping goals.
i was built with impulsive bones, writhing around inside me,
jutting out at angles. i'm phases and faces, constantly changing.
i am a chameleon, mother raised me to blend to a certain shade,
to lighten my tint and darken my chroma. i am many different gradations and hues. i am stumbling along the roadside with a obituary in my back pocket, titled 'the girl who was everybody and nobody at all.'
who will you miss, all of me or none of me?
i am sybil, i am borderline.
mostly, i'm just sorry.
you cannot fly away from thisalong the spine
of the rosebush,
that wrap 'round
your ankles and kiss you
with a clean-cut from the thorns,
and a bite from the frost,
was a infant chickadee
encased in ice.
how much is
the gelid bird
in the bush worth?
how many in the hand;
tell me that life is not
autumnmy body thrives on the migration of
tree limbs and human hearts -
a golden fist clenches onto modicum
entrails, thrusting pollen up my throat
and into the air you breathe.
tallest man on earthhe rolls in
to waltz out
and out to
before i have
a chance to
whisper, i miss
hibernationshe thinks it started with
He felt like November
mornings pressed up the window stills
chimney ashes pulsing through her veins
like insanity, in resounding hymns
and Sunday worship, the disjointed chorus echoes and background noise
Of shallow graves immersed in
And she was the conjuring of flight lessons
On the moon, and hibernation, heavy on the lips
The deactivation of
her capillaries trickling down dysphoria and
To My Biology TextbookOn page 159 of my biology textbook, it reads,
“...cancer is the uncontrolled growth of cells”
as though that could explain everything,
and I thought it did for a time.
But my textbook never warned me
that his skin would pale
to a point where I could see
the blue freight trains
carrying eighteen pills
throughout his frail body.
My textbook never warned me
that his watery irises would freeze over,
that he would hurl insults like knives,
and that he would clench his jaw
as tightly as his fist clenched his wine glass
because the only person to blame is himself,
and he can’t swallow that as easily
as he can the olives in his martinis.
And my textbook never warned me
that it would be this difficult to breathe
because of my acute awareness
that his breaths are limited,
and that there would be nothing I could do
but soldier on searching for that silver lining
clinging to these foreboding thunderheads.
he called it the art of destruction.she had nice eyes,
the kind you liked to draw
with watercolor tears
and ink like the moon's
he had memorized
her midnight lashes,
the half-closed shutters
and memories locked away
behind a pupil,
and his pencil was the
were the specks in her
irises of emerald
everything she touched
turned into gold,
everything she touched
and rose anew
like budding flowers
after the blizzard.
could never do the same,
but he'd give those eyes away
for a dime apiece,
ignoring the fact
that ebony charcoal
and half-dried acrylics
were all that she would
on loving a girl who doesn't love herselfYou used to tell her that you’d accept the reminders, the dark shades running down and over the hill of her waist, the shadow of her wrist. Far from unlovable, you said. So far.
Grudgingly, you realized that you could not fix her. She was not a dismantled puzzle just waiting for you; she was her own brand of porcelain, one you didn’t know how to mold back together. She wasn’t breathing for you.
The moments of silence between you led to a longer period, those weeks when you went days without talking – and you didn’t know if you were supposed to be proud of her or cry.
Stargazed at each other’s words until the night came when you learned she wanted you to kiss her scars and make love to them as if they were her self. You laughed without humor and said, "I might as well kiss them with the fucking blade then." She said nothing.
When she discovered that you would love her and her body and her past – but wouldn’t trace the lines on her skin
naive this is new york, new york
and i'm burning under the
cold coffee is crawling
over the bed-side table;
my fingers have gone
numb at the tips -
arctic fantasies of
not so picture perfect.when i was seventeen,
the world told me that it was at my feet,
& patiently waited for me to step foot in it
so it could take me as its own.
he told me that the world would
eat me alive
but have faith, he said,
get down on your knees & pray.
i guess god must have low self-esteem.
eighteen taught me
that love couldn't conquer all,
despite the faith it demanded
trust was wearing thin,
just like his excuses,
& i didn't know my role
in a world made for those
who knew their place.
when i was nineteen,
the future escaped me
& the present was a gift
that i did not ask for.
i was drained, exhausted,
& secluded in a cave
constructed from the remains of myself
that i salvaged from the world.
it was no wonder i was empty.
time was running out.
the book i was blindly writing
made little sense, & i was reading
braille on the skin of others.
the sand that weighed me down
shifted, until the glass cracked.
i guess time ran out.
twenty-one was rebirth,
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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