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a poem for the roads and skies.shaking, i
carve religion into my
arm just to
remind me that i am
somehow, i have
my entire life- i'm telling you, the
devil is in the
it's in the way
the trees bend outside the
churches and the
funeral home, the smell of
convergence in the
and i am stuck
half-in-love and humming
while burning my heart
Shy TruthsI spilled a cup of ocean
and opened my hands
hoping to catch the truth.
and a palm-full
of worn pebbles
were all I caught.
My Heart's Captivityif these walls could talk -
you'd be dead by now,
lynched by the very
same red stringed promises
you wouldn't keep.
heretic.admired & afar,
his beauty became a childlike caricature
of his defiantly devious demeanour.
euphoric ecstasy found its feathers, flying him
'til gravity grounded gushes of his history on my helpless hips,
his insanity insistent on injecting juvenile judgments into my kingdom,
killing love & leaving lust,
as malleable memories manoeuvre my mind
near never-ending nausea.
oh, other-worldly oppression,
please place me at peace!
a qualm quickens the riot rising in the rosebud refuge of my ribcage,
sand spreading through the time-glass
underneath the vile vagrant with wicked wings,
wanting water in xerarch.
yes, i yowl, yes
this is the way that i will extract my revengei am nothing but phantom pains
reborn into old bones;
oh, sugar skeleton, tell me -
what's it like to be a ghost?
Monday Morning (I Know)It was mentioned casually
at the breakfast table:
“A boy from school
committed suicide last night.
Did you know him?”
I know the way
the night sky wrapped itself
around his shoulders
and ripped itself away,
and how to him, light-years
were a measure of time
and not of distance.
I know that darkness
was darker for him,
and that light was
always too bright.
I know that smiling was painful
in all seventeen muscles,
and that it was a relief
I know that he carried
the depression on his shoulders,
and that he spent half the day
hiding it away from everyone,
and the other half
wishing somebody would notice.
I know that he was the best actor,
and that everyone believed
that his eyes sparkled from happiness
and not from tears.
I know that he was so good,
he never had to lie and say
“I’m fine,” because
nobody ever asked.
I also know that today, the halls
will echo with silence
and the occasional small cry,
courtesy of the people
who never really knew hi
spider song, purple ladyshe carried
a pair of scissors
in her purse so she could
cut the filter off her cigarette
before she smoked it.
she sucked in her
cheeks and pursed her
lips when she had to be
patient for anything.
'how do you
stay so thin?' i asked
she gathered her bracelets
at her wrists and they clinked
like wine glasses, like the twinkle
of her smile, 'cigarettes and ritalin,'
she said. 'a steady diet of cigarettes and ritalin.'
she had small
hands that were not
feminine. her fingers
were short and her palms
her was purple. even
her eyes. they were brown.
she didn't wear
lipstick. only gloss.
stinking, pink, and sticky.
don't go too near, you'll end
up with your lips stuck and then
she'll eat you. you'll love it.
i asked why
she didn't just
cut the filters off
all at once, all at once
at home and she said, 'honey
it's wednesday, and i've barely
made it past monday yet.' snip,
flick, fzzz. alright, i said, you know
you're one hell of a girl and you're
alright, i said.
my father lived in Indiamy father is a man of many colors.
on the nights when the moon stays asleep,
he lotions his palms with pomegranate juice.
the sugared blood pools in the creases of his
skin, staining it India’s red.
sometimes, my father scrubs his hands until
they are nothing but flesh & fruit rinds.
when he was younger—all skinned knees and pocket
knives—he must've slipped on a thousand marbles.
my father’s father was a welder who rolled and spun
steel into tiny spheres.
when he died, my father’s hands became blue and
free of pocket knives. to this day, he keeps a bag
of marbles on our mantle.
from time to time, he shakes the cool metal into
his open palms and waterfalls it back and forth.
see, this is the trouble with blue hands:
they never let go of the things that scar them.
they try so hard to be red again.
my father doesn't like whistling because
an old woman in India told him it was uncivilized.
she perched herself on the edge of the Ganges River
i swear-i am sad from wanting
but not from wanting you.
the winters worn away
and with the snow melted the brokenness
we were and i am not sorry for it.
i've stopped cussing beneath my breath,
been wearing more black
and if you so much as
cross the threshold
of my house
this isn't about you.
this is about the way you still manage
to pull at my heartstrings strung
across countries and continents,
the length of the world,
my soul tangled
how your hand still manages
to wrap around mine and i hear your voice,
thick with culture,
the stereotype supreme of irish catholic,
murmuring in my ear that it's all
right while you move my fingers
into my throat-
this is about how-
no matter how far you move (away)-
you will keep your grasp tight on me
and crush me if you can
just so you don't
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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