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And There Was Lighti.
He was seventeen when he died.
I never went to the funeral
but I walked past it the day of
the service. His mother
was in the backseat of a blue Dodge,
door open, head in her hands.
"My baby," she kept repeating.
"My baby." It would go from sobbing, to
screaming, to a soft whisper that
I could only hear being carried
on the wind.
It was a Wednesday afternoon that they found
his old red pickup truck parked
out front of Slim's, two beer bottles in
the back and the windows cracked to let the stale
I heard that his dad told the police he was
gonna take that old truck and fix it up, because
he had promised his son before—
because it's always in the before—
And in the after, his mother never had dry eyes
and I'm pretty sure my mom told me
that she saw his dad at the bar every night,
drinking his sorrows down because some people can't
handle the stress.
Some people can't figure out why their son would
"Some men just want to w
There's a Difference Between Special and SpecialMy friend once described his record of accidents like this: "I've already wrecked three—my own, my mom's, and my dad's!"
This was during a game of "Never Have I Ever" during seventh period Spanish II, in which we usually did next to nothing and sang Spanish songs while sitting atop our desks. Everyone who was playing had put a finger down in response to the question of "have you ever hit a car?" Including my own. But everyone told their story with a little laughter because it happens, right? It's a learning experience and it's supposed to happen and it is okay because that's just how you learn.
It's true, because from that day on I have been excellent in reversing out of parking spots.
Let me start with this: My mother never taught me how to reverse out of anything. In driver's ed it was covered slightly, but I was never told full out what you're supposed to be looking at when you do so, when to turn your wheel so that you don't hit any car, o
in flesh and bloodHe finds her unassumingly. She's just standing there, cheeks ruddy, bundled in a forest green jacket lined with fake—he thinks—fur. He finds her, hands in pockets, feet atop the grass. The light that floods the panes of her face casts dark shadows beneath her eyes and along her jaw and he thinks for a moment that she might be kind of beautiful.
"Why are you standing before the Eiffel Tower and looking so sad?"
Her head snaps. He counts, one, two, three, seconds, and then she turns her face upward toward the monument in front of the two. They are alone. She doesn't say anything and then she's saying something and he has to turn his attention from the angles of her face to her brown, brown, brown eyes.
"Do you think it's lonely?" Of course not, he thinks. Of course not.
But all he can utter is no as he stares up at it. When she asks him why he sputters and turns to face her again, and sh
this is me giving you upsomewhere in my heart you came in like a hurricane
shoving everything that stood in your path to the side and i let you because
maybe my friends were just clogging my arteries and
maybe the things i wanted were just going to badden my blood.
the fire that was within you burned holes into my skin
you were the heat atop the flames that made my vision lack tension and i was
blinded--your hands were so much bigger than mine
you embodied a giant and you crushed me like i was a weed
i should have been scared at the fact that you were over a foot taller than me but
someone told me that if you stare a tiger down
they will submit to you
unfortunately, you did not submit to me, but i gave way of my own control and threw caution to the wind
i think of you as analogies in my mind because when i see things
they remind me of you or the way you used to hold me
i see stones sitting in the creek behind my best friend's house and think of your eyes and
i sing songs that never applied to me as much as th
122% humanI am simply a human being because
underneath my paper skin beats with blood,
and my muscles still twitch after it has stopped
as if it still longs for life.
I am simply a human being because I
carry battle scars on my body.
(but all books are just spines and
stories to tell, so sometimes I think maybe I could be
printed enough times to not
feel so alone.)
humans are not stars. we do not
glow with a resonance that can be seen from light years
we may fool ourselves into thinking
we could be—(movie stars, pop stars;
did we ever think maybe being famous is not synonymous with
loving ourselves?)—but even comets fall
to earth with baggage.
but if I was to be something more than
a girl who reads too many books and loves the study of
people more than their society,
I would be a supernova.
beautiful, so beautiful I'd explode someday.
into an abyss; a black hole. destroying everything I
came into contact with; eating the
leftovers with my bare hands.
veinte uno.there are lines down your wrists
that drip like vines falling from the sky
and they taint everything red
like the snow cone you ate when you were five
your skin is the color of
milk, just like the kind you ate with
your oreos before bedtime
you paint your eyelids with all the colors
of the sunset to try to hide
the purple veins beneath your skin
like your mother taught you when you
but the concealer cannot tame the long
midnight hours you've spent hating
yourself that sit under your lashes
the puppy you got is like the one
your daddy bought you when you were three
something just isn't the same anymore
and god forbid
you'll never be afraid of the monsters
in the closet like when you were a kid again because
now they're in your
6 ways on learning how to swim1. toes first
when i was younger i thought i was
beautiful. not like the other girls, of course, but i thought that
the sun followed me around because it thought i was pretty.
and i am a shop-a-holic. money burns a hole in
the back pocket of my jeans because i love to spend it.
but i do not like to go shopping. i love the idea and hate the activity.
there are few days that trying on clothes brings me
happiness because there are even fewer days that i love my
body enough to look in a mirror.
but i am trying.
("i love this dress! i can't believe that it fit!
i dropped another size!"
"what, mom? why are you looking at me like that?"
"...oh, please. one size?")
there are days when i don't leave my house and there are days
that i spend the time to put on makeup and
nice clothes to open the door and feel the fresh air and
to admire all the lovely, smiling, silently judging people who
i think are looking at me, but they probably aren't
5 reasons to date a girl with an eating disorderi.
her stomach hollows out sometimes,
but you never hear it cry out in the sort
of desperate plea that you think
her body ain't a kingdom and her heart sure
ain't an oasis, but she's got
the body of an hourglass (not that she knows how
to tell her own time.)
the bathroom door is always
locked when you get home, and she never fails
to keep her secrets just
as tucked away in her bosom as she does you
away from her misery.
she never lets you buy her clothes
because it seems that she never ever wears her
all they do is swallow her up in a pitied
attempt to kill her off.
besides, your pockets are heavier
when she doesn't weigh so much.
her voice is so soft now.
she never speaks--too afraid to start a war from
you like her better than your ex who
spit fire and brimstone at you, and never once would
shut up while you fucked
her into seeing white.
her daddy was always a rich man,
which is why she's got magazines of pretty girls--
six steps to fixing youstep one
cry. scream. bang your fists against the walls
that keep you locked inside.
kick your feet in the air. tell your sister she's stupid
and wrong and that you've never loved her.
cry. scream. apologize via him to you.
let your tears catch on your lashes
until you can no longer see anything but your own
demise. taste the bitterness left in
your mouth from your own bitching and rot in it.
break a mug. break two. kick
the pieces around the kitchen floor and cry some more.
break a plate. break a cup. break a bowl.
break a finger because nothing can take away this
sort of pain. you are empty and yet
you are filled with so much anger.
break a razor and paint pictures across your skin.
you are okay, you tell them.
you break three days later and you lie
in bed, unable to move.
start picking up the pieces. clean up the mess
you've made and he's left.
use windex to polish off the dirt and
poor arielyou asked me why
i lose my voice for periods of time,
casting me as a seasick ariel,
unaware life was my ursula.
you don't understand that every word spoken is
breathing under water;
it feels as if i'm sinking
to the bottom of the sea when
all i want to do is surface.
anxiety, like wet sand,
sucks in my newly-made toes
and clings to my ankles.
i find out what drowning is for the first time.
i hold my own wrist,
as if it's broken,
'cause there are no hands,
available left to hold it.
to rest in the base
of your touch cannot happen.
it's much too tough to ask.
so i sit staring
into a blank field,
body in reverie,
mind in ennui,
sick of you and i.
i love you
but hate i fell too
deep into the pool,
of what I thought was true.
5 feet, 5 inches,
around my 5'7'' frame,
now left a shell.
my arms hold me,
as i clutch my abdomen,
and rest against the floor.
i lie there,
knowing the pain
will finally stop
that it's just beginning.
because the hardest
part about this,
is loving a ghost
that isn't dead in body,
but in your mind,
and you can't kill her,
no matter how much
you wanna take the gun
and pull the trigger.
so i let pellucid phantoms
perplex the crevices
of my intricate labyrinth.
and i let the apparition
fly around inside,
before it fades and dissipates,
just like the b
Things I would Tell Her--C.I want to tell her the things
I'll tell her when she’s older,
but the information terrifies her.
In order of importance:
she has luna moths in her head,
monarch butterflies in her stomach,
and a feral fetus in her womb.
are collapse-clasped and folded
in her lap;
she holds her elbows like wings
away from her ribs,
ready to flap,
I want to tell her
to keep one hand in her purse
so she can always find her keys,
to keep an eye on the door
and the door always open
so she can run if she doesn't feel safe,
but her cheeks are rorschach-splotch red
and the tension in her shoulders
warns me she's not ready
to hear this.
And there is the possibility that
maybe I’m not ready to tell
I’m just as devastated as her;
that she is surrounded by friends and family
who are violated by a community
where no man can say yes all men.
my mind revels in antiquity,
the shadows of tomorrow.
showing shaded silhouettes
of the future,
while phantoms paint pasts.
parasol the sun.
eclipse of what was,
sprinkling flashes of dust
and what could be.
but what could've been
is nothing but a memory.
and these fading reflections
are not your grandmother's antiques.
flyover state, flyover heartthere's almost nothing
left of august, or me -
just fat, humid yawns that
cling to the asphalt and
vinyl sidings of houses
prettier than any autumn day.
chlorined kids rise from the
tanned wake of public pools,
clothed in school uniforms,
counting the new freckles
they've earned like war badges.
the nights i can lay in my
underwear beneath spider web
blankets while my wheezy fan
oscillates and whispers dusty
stories are numbered.
but i'll hold the moon
as it crests over summer's
dying vigil, my arms high
around it's wondrous girth.
i'll ride the heat into the
ashes of three months spent
dreaming in fevered euphoria.
i'll lead the impassioned
thousands down margins tucked
into a waning, wailing cry.
and i won't rest, even after
august is buried between blue
lined composition pages in a
coffin of lead - a memory with no
scent becoming one without a heartbeat.
you have seven days to live.1.the news doesn't hurt:
it's his eyes that hurt you,
the glimmer of his past
creeping in just like
his father used to creep in
at three a.m.
with a sin on his mind
and rage on his hands.
he waits for you to react,
but you don't
because he's suddenly seven again,
while mommy cries
in a ball on the couch.
2.you think time
is a funny thing.
people talk about it
like it is an object:
"I need more time," they say,
like they will go to the store later
and buy more.
but you know that time
is more like an ocean wave,
with an endless
pounding that continues
long after we greet the dirt,
and we want more time,
but time doesn't want us.
3.he tries to force you
into his wrists,
his ankles, his collarbone.
he thinks that if he
loves you enough,
he can save you.
you know that he can't,
so you cut through him
night after night,
searching for an exit.
4.sometimes death scares you.
you remind yourself that
no matter how much you want
How to love a poet: Expect them to be flawed,
a field of wild flowered-
& an inability
Love them anyway.
Know that when they look at you
they are noticing the little things.
Being Okay Is The Hardest Thing We DoBeing Okay Is The Hardest Thing We Do
because being okay is expected,
if we’re not okay, that’s not okay,
what can we do to be okay?
we can scribble illegible words
on a canvas made for by painters
masquerading as notebook paper,
and hope that we can sell the burn
of stinging emotions for some paper.
but the funny thing about that thought?
is that american money isn’t paper,
it’s 75% cotton and 25% linen fibers.
so even the money you'd earn from your misery,
isn't anything you can write on
when you realize your money isn't
made to heal. even if it does talk.
but it never really ever says enough, does it?
But that's okay...
being okay is the hardest thing we do
because sticks and stones do break bones,
but you can hide the scars
with a jacket or longer sweatshirt.
or put on pants as opposed to athletic shorts.
words kill, words heal, and words are so much more.
and you can't hide the scars that riddle your face,
the way your
the definition of dangerhe is alabaster porcelain;
only so many heaped spoonfuls
of disappointment in a china
cup he is smoke he is mirrors;
here today, gone tomorrow
he's nothing more than a
he is icarus incarnate well-designed party trick.
he believed he could rise above
us rise above himself -
poised to fall he is a stardust sunburst.
one moment, a flare of beauty
honeygod gave her a glass of apple
flavored whiskey, sat her down and said
i promise i will never let another hurricane
and she sipped from her glass and left
lipstick marks on the rim
the lace of her bra was peeking out from the
back of her dress and he wanted to reach out and
caress her skin more than he
had ever dreamed of
the next year florida was hit with two hurricanes
back to back and
she was buried along with her best friend
in a little black dress and no undergarments because
(who is ever gonna look)
god thanked the undertaker
this one is for the kids who
don't feel safe in
their own bodies
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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