Envy
crecelle:
Once you kissed me and called it art.
Since then I have watched as you have
changed from gold to green and now you
taste of bitter apples, of sleep deprivation.
Once I built brick walls from your teeth
and prayed for a treaty to end the war
that was between your skin and flesh.
You used to laugh a lot, and once
I bottled up the noise to keep.
Once you told me you missed me
and once you told me it was weird
that I just kept showing up, and
sometimes I think about you and
sometimes I make lists of mistakes
I’ve made, and you’re at the top.
Once you were golden and warm;
I found no faults in your freckles
and wanted for nothing but the honey
that dripped when you laughed.
Now you’re green and a bit bitter -
the downfall of man rewritten.
11
January 19 2013 (98)
redlightyear:
be careful propositioning weathered old women
you don’t know her background
where she might have slipped off a tool belt
from her daisy dukes on the work site
and done it right there when the foreman
was out on lunch with the crummy kid in faded red
and jean (not my lover) played through a tin can radio
deadly to discover her
first (or many) marriage(s) and
failed assassination attempt(s) of her latest stud(s)
an ex-military man with gusto and inches-thick
bones that never brought him down
not even when he fought
fist-on-fist with a tan man
a young man spooked from a shelter
every hand you touch could have had
a strong one attached to it long ago
so if you see a scar
if you sense a missing piece
if you smell a rotten smell somewhere
in her past
run, boy,
run far
this will not be a lasting resort
9
I can’t shake
ampersandthenwhat:
the way you shake me.
I keep holding on
to the way
you hold me.
Now teach me
to forget the way
you forgot me.
7
Sorrow.
the-fiercest-fables:
And it comes to the point where you don’t feel it anymore. It’ll be with you in the darkness and next to you when you lay down to sleep at night with your covers tucked up to your chin and your lower lip trembling fast, but you can’t feel it’s fingers as they run through your dirty hair and you can’t feel its lips as they nip at your knobby elbows and jagged knees and you can’t feel it’s pulse as it presses against you in the shower when you’re broken on the tile floor and so many pieces of you have already fallen down the drain.
There’s no hope to ever be whole again but you’re not too concerned and you can’t feel it’s breath filling up your lungs because you’ve been holding your breath too long and it comes to the point where you don’t feel anything at all because you’re nothing and you have nothing and you will be nothing until you’re less than nothing.
He doesn’t understand because he says he cares but you’re still holding your breath. He doesn’t understand because he says you’re lovely but you’re still holding your breath. He doesn’t understand because he says I love you and you’re still fucking choking, you wait for it to fill the void that it caused and you wait for the pain, you wait for hours, days, months but you still feel nothing. You wait and he keeps saying things and you keep bleeding but nothing is still nothing even when your cuts heal to scars and your socks still fall off when you sleep.
Nothing is relevant and you’re pretty sure that you are the new novacaine. You are the new demerol, vicodin, percocet, oxycontin. You are still nothing and he still kisses you on your eyelids when you pretend to sleep. You want it to come back into your life but you have no choice. The hurt is permanent enough now and you are so alone with him and you’re terrified. All your dreams are coming true and you’re terrified.
12
mermaidsandearthquakes:
There’s a poem intertwined in the stray strands of your beard, and a story tucked into the tears along the gem of your favorite ( and only) jacket - you know, the one you love to loan me when I’m shivering.
I hear a song between your eyelashes and I can’t help but him along.
Can you hear what I’m singing to you?
10
he told me
callused:
“you know how your spine has its own reflexes?
well, your spine reminds me of the moon—
how the moon controls the tides of the ocean—
it controls the tender muscles of your back
to have spasms as i trace the lower part of your neck
and i think that’s my most favorite part of your external,
autonomic
being”
(Source: petrichour)
79
diagnosis
icha-ichaparadise:
You’ve got a virus in your soul, and here is my diagnosis.
It’s quite small but you can’t cure it, the virus, I mean. It’s in you, in a part of you that no medicine could possibly affect, and it’s destroying you from the inside. This virus is draining you of your energy and leaving you weak, cracking your spirit and sucking the remnants dry.
How did you get it, you ask? I’m afraid I can’t answer it; maybe you caught it from somewhere or maybe it’s been growing, like a parasite. You have something unnatural in you, causing you to be like this.
Because all in all, humans should be relatively happy beings. And when you have an intact soul, that isn’t terribly hard to accomplish if you also have a few other necessities of life such as companionship and food. A healthy human can smile and look forward to the next day most of the time with little qualms.
You, on the other hand, are sick.
This virus, this parasite, whatever it is that’s in your soul is destroying you slowly and you’re dehumanizing. You feel terrible and you want to stay in bed all day; you wake up and you’re tired but when it’s nighttime you can’t sleep and you stay up to 3am, whether or not you’ve managed to convince yourself you have a reason.
You’re not complete; your spirit is fragmented and it’s more difficult to put something back together when you can’t tangibly hold it. Sadness without reason becomes something of the norm and if you try to distract yourself, it only works for so long and you merely build up the raw emotions until they hit you at once. And then the cycle repeats, each more vicious.
Your sickness has manifested itself in your mind and that’s dangerous, you see; it’s not something that surgery can get rid of and therapy only works if you, the participant, are willing and strong minded. I can prescribe no antibiotics and I can only give you recommendations. Your sadness and hopelessness is painful but not physical enough to convince others that your pain and illness is “real” and you will be forced to function as a normal being of society, unfortunately, and I apologize for that. We’re in a society where unless your forehead is warm, your cheeks are flushed and body emaciated, or you’re throwing up last night’s dinner and blood, your sickness isn’t “real” and the only sympathy you’ll receive is “suck it up and get over it.”
I apologize for this less than optimistic diagnosis, but that is how things are for you. You’ve got a sickness in your soul and it’s decaying you from the inside out and you’ll be dead before dying and there’s not much that can be done about it.
36
flashes
veraci:
let me tell you about the boy i’m with. his mother drunkenly asked me one night why i loved him and all the words i’ve written for him in the past several years boiled down to a simple “i don’t know.” it’s true. i don’t know why i love him but i know i do.
he picked up a stupid, annoying habit recently which is to say “motherfucker” at the end of every fucking sentence. i have fun with him, but his jokes are not the funniest. he yells a lot when he’s frustrated, similarly to the way my father yells at my mother that i hate so much. and i think he plays video games way more than what’s good for him.
his favorite book is one he’s never finished. he read it to me this afternoon and it’s a story about a boy named louis who would become a soldier in the second world war. i fell asleep to his voice and woke up when he stopped and closed his book. “you were snoring,” he smiled. also, “i love you.”
when i was preparing breakfast for us once, he sprawled his limbs out on my couch and had a conversation with himself. it was the strangest thing, although i know what it’s like to have conversations with my own self. he also complimented my eggs.
there are days when he is too nice to everybody and days when he is spitting sharp words.
“i want to fuck you,” he whispered and it was the most seductive thing. fuck. the word sounds so alluring when he whispers it and, at that moment, there was nothing i wanted more. his hands fit nicely at the crook of my hips and his lips are addictive. sweet and aggressive. i always want to be wrapped in him completely but god made him with only two arms to remind me he doesn’t have everything i need.
the thing is though, he is way more than enough. he’s dangerous and soft at the right and wrong times. sometimes, i feel like i’ll be stuck with him even when he’s long gone.
16
micador:
Sometimes I wish that you understood that there are two sides to love, One that’s always forgetting and the one that yearns for you on a warm Friday night. The side that waits awake thinking of you at night, with my red dress on and the lights dim, waiting for you to sweep me away and make me your own, Only to see the moon light grow clearer and the door stay closed, locked tight. I wish you’d lay your hands on me like all of those crazy times just one year ago, when my body was electrified with your pulse against my skin, you’d say you loved me over and over so that it was like a stamp imprinted in my past, present and future. It’s something not even I could forget. The tan ripped leather in your pickuo and your hand resting on my thigh driving down that dirt road on the 5th of December. The way you left the window half rolled down and almost ran the red light when you looked over me. The cold nights in the old tin sheds when you’d be working late and I’d come in, your hands would be dirty with grit, but I didn’t mind. You’d grab my waist and pull me close and whisper sweetly that you’d missed me. You had every piece of me. That first Christmas when I woke up next to you wrapped up in sheets against your skin, You were truly the most magnificent man I’d ever seen, your brown eyes, they way stubble slowly crept up upon your cheeks when you hadn’t shaved in a while, that certain untidiness that made you just so much more handsome. And now I wonder if you even remember what that was like, and how marvellous those nights and days we spent together were. I wonder if lay in bed and if a passing thought is ever about me, because all of those memories are still abundant in my mind, and I can’t get rid of them. There cemented down like a footpath into my past. I wish that you would come back.
(Source: micador)
5
Burning Clouds: Beauty
burningclouds:
Beauty is
a Northwest beach, speckled
with pebbles, clay, china caps,
and wine colored jelly fish that
aren’t poisonous, I swear!
Beauty is
the view from my breakfast table,
adorned with reflective frost, orange
skies, and hundreds of whitened spider
webs. They must’ve taken all night.
Beauty is
7
rhinest0nes:
The ocean mumbles.
I detect blues humming towards the moon.
Her lids rupture.
She settles and sighs against my silhouette
in the omnipresence of my foe, my foe.
Our sphere is imbued with foes.
(via rosefrail-deactivated20130111)
11
Totes Innapropes: Hide.
sunrisesandcigarettes:
The morning arrives, as I lay in bed alone.
I awake, not by choice,
but ‘cause my discomfort becomes overwhelming.
my true face bare,
It shows aberration and distress,
Things no one else is allowed to see.
I lie awake,
The idea of walking out into the world,
I detest it, repulsed,
Makes my…
Richard’s note: i love this
1
