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wiltinglift my schoolgirl thighs.
preach your tempting words about how it's going to be "all-right."
my skin is a field of carnations. they are fuschia.
it's 9:47 p.m. and the sky turned black too long ago.
the carnations wilt under starlight.
they cripple in your stride.
i kiss the ground you walk on.
but it's too little to say
we're too young to be living like this,
and it's too much to say
we're hurt by some fragment
of our past
and that's why we move crookedly.
no, we're not damaged.
you just know that i'm wrong.
you have pretty legsdear j, hurt me.
i feel you when i sleep, injected into dreams
you are the only girl who would ever say i'm broken
and still love me. love me more. my thoughts of you are
serpentine, dark, dreaming: women are this way
being a woman, loving a woman, this brings me to
the depths of mystery, unexplored hollows and
untold secrets, stories we cannot recount, hinting.
loving a woman is reaching blindly for your own heart
with needle-tipped fingers, smoke escaping from
the many dialects of your tongue, animalistic,
blood spitting, nails ripping open layers of internal flesh,
opening things that shouldn't, can't,
this is only a part of me but please just listen.you called it in,
thursday evening at six.
six, six. and let's say that again.
i stare at you when i park my car and when the car goes into park
you are already sliding into the front seat, mumbling "hello" into my neck and i,
i smile my words back into your cheek and then
we get out
we meet outside of the car, in the lobby, like friends
so nobody stares.
this is normal, this is,
you know. average.
you called me down,
half past seven and the hotel room,
it looks glossy and beige,
white and pearly edges,
bathroom that smells like citrus:
orange juice, lemonade vomit,
you called it love.
i would have picked a bet
fumai'll be honest. it scares me all the time. the way it feels, the complete
inconsistency of reality, the dip of light and shadow as
what you perceive rips from what is perceivable.
even so, i miss it,
even though it's wrong, he is wrong, i want nothing
of either: i miss them. i know.
you, you, are writing on my back, writing out your secrets
in felt-tip pen, in aubergine, en español.
que van debajo de mi piel. me encanta este... simplemente no se.
i am a bad girl with good taste:
mixing a cherished smile with the hot grin of smoke.
talk to me in circles, bilateral trapezoids, violet tongues
four hours, maybe five, spent sp
painchaserswhen the feeling hits me, i am playing
with knives in the dim light of the television, surrounded
by so many variations of glow, not watching
the spin of something on the screen, the colour
evaporating from my skin the way that the breath
suspires from me and, so doe-eyed
imagining you standing above me i look up,
smirking in my sick way and smiling in every way
opening up to you as a rose unfolds in sunlight
undressing her petals with soft licks of movement
you asked again if i believe in god and i
biting down on your shoulder i
might have some faith in something but not in
anything i can't see, i don't even believe
in mental i
crumbling,i have been awake for fifteen minutes.
your mouth in the crook of my neck feels
very much like sunlight, very much like i am
seeing things, schizophrenic and blue, hands shaking
like when i drive your car without looking at your body,
multicoloured and alive, listless in the front seat,
our music playing, breathing in the smell of leaves, of warmth.
your voice in my ear, you finding me in a crowd of people,
this is me remembering how lucky i am, how i am
more fortunate than i'd like to admit, knowing that
bleeding does not really hurt, exactly, because you cannot
comprehend the strength of the mind, a queen in feathers
and dark go
song of the new orphan
do you recall that afternoon that we were together?
of course you do.
there were so few.
like the first night I saw you. your skin pale as a
waterstain, body an empire of bones and
I wasn't supposed to be there.
The invisible worms could feel my lying
when I told you my name.
my ersatz skin was pulling and crawling,
telling me to get out. hungry. it is hungry.
when you sang, your muscles tore.
I love that sound.
That afternoon we were?
we collected dead leaves and ate nothing.
nothing tastes as good as skinny feels, you said,
and you screamed because you knew
when we looked up, we'd fin
heroini clutch the hands of my brothers
and cry hot tears into the opulent reflections of skies.
the sun, churning in you, reflects in my wine-coloured hair
and all of us children, grown up but still too scared
to be real adults,
keep touching my crimson waves, the glow, the repetition.
there is animosity in every face we look into.
we don't know how to be peaceful,
and we forget love as soon as it is shown.
it is like hatred has a new face, a new throat
to swallow with, and it devours our skin
with a sound like flames. it sparks, and we lift
the sagging corners of our mourning mouths
in what we hope looks like smiling,
two minutes alonehe observes me in forgotten shades. "you are very grown up," he says, "youthful yet sharply beautiful, striking. it suits you, and you are..."--the silence encapsulates his words so they all seem collected like leaves on a branch-- "quite charming," he says, "your words, they're enrapturing."
i am the princess of swollen eyes and love bites. i enjoy shoving girls' faces into bare mattresses. i crumple up under friend's bodies like a ball of silk and try not to scream. i've put my car to clever use. my legs are a wreath of bruised white lilies around the neck of a wax-winged peter pan. there's no name for some of the things i have done, the t
one year, three months.a mystery of sound, a swallowing of clouds.
spitting up my silent synonyms, adjectives
not made grey by the spin of repetition.
spending my nights lost in memories, the
glint of glass, circular and hard as it tilts
to capture a miasma of despair, a horde
of silver christmas lights that twitter in the fog
outside, the scent of snow coming deep into
the breath of the window. it is beautiful, everything
is beautiful, the world is bleeding beauty, and i,
i, my love, am not. you could trace constellations of
scars, from river to ravine in pink and white
landscapes across my hips. you, mapping my skin,
so still, you stare and reach
some things you lose and some things you give awaybite your skin open,
peel back the flesh.
bite again, grate away
bone. see your internal
organs, little crumpled half-
devoured monsters, and my
cold thoughts ignite, pale
two in the morning,
october tenth. i am
in my car, parked
at a diner. there,
i ate a salad,
a chicken wrap. the
waiter said, it's a
lot of food. i
said, i'll be fine.
i am in my car,
not really fine.
of the chicken wrap is in
a white box at
my knees. i devour
it, finishing in a
are not told about
eating disorders is the
obsession. it's like holding
your breath: if you
stop breathing, all you
i'm godthe other night
i drove home from your house and i
felt the incredible pull of life slipping at me,
out from under my skin. if you think about it,
if you really think about loving me,
it probably doesn't seem like a good idea.
i'm decomposing from the inside out, or maybe
i kill myself as the world
nibbles on my skin, and we are both
confusing each other
with strange concepts and conceptions.
videos playing in our minds,
soundless flashbacks of water
and the perfect shade of warm blue,
that fucking shade
of water that will always be paired
with the yellow of my hand, something
indiscriminate to t
Statistics are temporarily unavailable
Do you know the taste of the universe?One day, when you’re five years old and made out of fractured sunlight and mirror shards, you sat down on the bench of the MAX train. You’re dressed in your winter coat and boots that are too big and one of your parents has pulled your hat too close over your ears.
You’re sitting next to your mother, and on the other side is a man that smells like loneliness, something that you’ll later know as cigarettes and alcohol and homelessness. He’s crying quietly into the top of his jacket and you’re scared to look because you’ve never seen an adult cry.
The train ride goes on for five minutes, which is a lo
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`anmari has been spreading her infectious positivity throughout our community for over 6 years. Throughout this time Ana has been at the core of all things devious, passionately developing an eclectic gallery, helping organise devmeets, participating in chat events and also recently completed dedicating her time as a Community Volunteer. We are absolutely delighted to bestow the Deviousness Award for May 2013 to `anmari, congratulations! Read More