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day 17she dreams of the pink swing set under a canopy
of leaves, shoes brushing colours of autumn
of mud slicked steps, rusted spoons and clear
plastic forks turned opaque from grimy hands
of lard-filled jars and broken glass,
glittering teeth hidden beneath tree shadows
of scratchy hay poking ankles and, below, sharp
metal just peeking through faded itchy yellow:
day 3you said: there is just
something about myths.
i thought there's just
something about your lips.
tell me the myths of
your sleepy hometown
and the truths of hands
held proud in public.
i'd like to learn the
stories of your skin,
the loud silence of
heartbeats and bed sheets.
you don't sit beside me in class anymoreyou look like oversized sweaters waiting for
mr darcy vapid vanilla shows up late to
class with coffee cheeks flushed from cold
(but there's more than meets the eye. i like
the flush of your cheeks and last week i
wondered if you bite lips or lick them; if
you'd change my mind on holding hands)
gone is your floral perfume soft breathing
arm brushing mine proximity pulsing legs
crossing blurry profile in peripheral
(but now i almost like it better this way. it's
easier to follow concentration as it moves
along your features and i have always been
more comfortable with distance anyway)
lost in space1
there were words once, listen:
quiet, soft, like fingers brushing over the fabric of a sweater, tickling your ear, warming, small gusts of heat that spread to your toes, a glinting eye, a curved mouth, a promise.
there were words once, listen:
hard, rough, like metal scraping over concrete, bruising, marking your arms, legs, ribs, even your spine, purple and black blossoming on dark skin, yellowing until silence, an apology.
there were words once, listen:
now there are no words, only the deafening roar of silence.
there are words now, listen:
the old stars whisper to each other. they have discovered the secret of patience, a conversation lasting the ages. a single word may take years upon years to travel and you have to know which way to send it. careful, precise, or you may tell a stranger you miss them.
you can hear the sound of these words, like fast cars on a track, restless and enduring. the faster they travel, the slower time moves, slowing rapidly until it sto
sharp nailsthere is a pattern of
veins on my right thigh
that looks like the long,
blue bones of a hand
sometimes these thin,
spindly fingers crawl
up my veins and
arteries to clasp around
my heart, tug on the
back of my eyes,
dotting and blacking
they scrape the nervous
system and i think i
used to pray to settle
from 3429 ft.two years ago from paris, saskatoon looked like a small solar system, hazy with rain and cold. three days ago from toronto, it is midday and foggy, a thick blanket of grey masking tiny grey buildings cut by a tiny grey river. but the feeling is the same and i want to reach across the aisle to hold my sister's hand much the same as two years ago, russell reaching for my hand, any hand, two changed souls unprepared to face the sameness of home.
but the feeling is not the same. we are not two changed souls: we are just happy ones, 'satisfied with the trip' ones, and i do not hold hands when i am happy.
may 3i press tissue paper to the skin
above my ankle, apply pressure,
try not to think about the red and
searing and the itch in my hand.
i decide i want to cover my body in
ink, beautiful and expensive.
my grandmother asks me why i
want a tattoo.
i tell her, "i think they're
five years of thinking pass.
birds fly across my wrist and i trap
beautiful and expensive.
reverberationshey skinny boy, you walk like you know where you're going
and when you kiss me, i don't know what to say
( and it sort of
reverberates between us, doesn't it? )
parenting 101when our children wake up screaming in the middle of the night
or crawl into our beds, we have a list of reassurances:
"it was just a nightmare" and
"it was just the shadows" and
"it was just your imagination"
until they, too, are desensitized and locked in a cage,
condition themselves to be blind and sane like the rest of us
float onnow I'm thinking
that the moon's smarter than me:
she's in love with the earth
but keeps her distance,
I lose my orbit
when you're not around,
and I find myself without gravity,
waiting for you all night
when I know you'd rather be
The ArtistShe talked to rocks, asking them if they’d be happy
To leave their home for her newest installation piece
She cried sometimes for no reason other than
She felt like having a good cry
Her house was covered in her students’ drawings
She said the best art was produced from innocence
She went mad once, and painted canvas after canvas
In furious strokes of black
The soft blue world of youth at last faded, she grew old
People shook their heads when they saw her
And whispered “poor dear” under their breath
But she was never poor
Her love for everything and everyone never died
It was swept in all directions like a summer breeze
Making people smile without knowing why
But the river rocks know
AlphaThere is an ocean
of wolves battering
my heels, teeth
bared, breaking skin.
Lightning is laced
into my spine, it
takes no prisoners,
but electricity is
no match for their howls.
I stand as the lioness
within roars and spits
out a hundred curses.
They are now prey,
with tumbleweed trolls
sinking their brambles
into matted fur.
Unique? Pathetic.You say that you are unique? Pathetic.
You are not, nor will you ever be unique. There are 7 billion people in the world- people just like you.
The same hair color, the same hair style; the same eye color, the same crooked smile. The same jacked up teeth that you forget to brush and the same chipped nails you pick at when you're in a rush. The same chapped lips- which you never stop biting; the same non-pierced ears that you never stop tugging. The same exact skin color, even when you tan; the same exact tan lines seen on every woman. The same exact figure, whether you lose or gain weight; the same exact death sentence, this is your fate.
A fate to always want to look like that girl in 3rd; to be as funny as that guy in 6th; to be as smart as the transfer in 2nd; and definitely be as happy as your teacher in 1st.
You can't say that you're unique when you have this fate. You can't be unique when you're just made of different people, and I will bet you anything that they're
the only timei say baby there’s too much weakness
we bled god to death like a dried up felt-tip pen
it is time to find another excuse for our shortcomings
but when your gutter vessels shudder
under pockmarked blotter
it is guilt
underscored in red
the sellotape the tear duct
the paper knife
the whip of risk the bodies at your feet
the every inherently senseless sacrifice
couldn’t satisfy this
i say there’s nothing to apologize for
the yellow in the sky feels dated
as i walk away
from tree to femur.
from wave to throat.
from cliff to iris.
from rust to skin.
slivers to paper mache,
creases to flame,
ashes to steel.
C19H28O2Testosterone is not a measure of a man.
C19H28O2 cannot make me smile
or feel safe in a claustrophobic world
in which breathing causes the piercing
colostomic pain of being alive
to rip through my thoughts.
C19H28O2 doesn't determine how a man loves
or how I love him in return.
It does not tell me whether or not
he will enlighten the biting nightscape.
It does not tell me who, or how to love,
because testosterone is not a measure of a man.
Soles (City Boy)Soles (City Boy)
i tugged at your arm and pouted
as you scratched our initials into the park bench
with our apartment key.
“can our lives be any more like a cheesy romance novel?!”
and you pushed up your glasses
and flashed me a smirk
and said simply,
“don’t test me.”
i’d always been a forest girl,
counting rows of corn instead
of cracks in the concrete,
sitting cross-legged under my bridge
listening to birds croon on crooked telephone lines
used to carrying a different kind of call.
but you showed me this place
where the sky glowed with
the beacons found below,
on passing cars
and the skyscrapers
like older brothers
looming far above our heads
yes, now we were living among the stars.
i arrived in the morning
and by mid-afternoon
i had internalized the sounds
of a hundred soles
scuffing across ill-kept sidewalks,
but our soles were dancing up on the rooftops
and no one could hope
to call us down.
i held tight to your hand
as you pulled us through the
ephemeral ( again )and i woke up in a
without knowing where i stood, snow
falling like dead raindrops
from a sky filled with
fall along my axis
and forget which way goes
the way our mind makes concentration
a little more
(to the left)
and there's a piece of you
you couldn't find;
don't forget that
there's monsters beneath the
sheets - ghosts without
(oh, how the sky is caving
in - )
run faster or
you'll just wake up to try
coming to termsThe first summer:
I felt bad for the bees that got squished under the
edges of the boxes and went through the
extractor; that came through the tanks floating to
the top of the barrels. I saw massacre in the bottom of the
capper, layers of wax and wings.
I scraped frames of drone bitterly, pacifying my
uneasy conscience by turning down Grandma's
offer of a scoop of honey in my tea on the
I continued to spare as many tiny lives as I could
but discovered that I set boxes down on angry
little bees without a twinge of remorse, perhaps
in revenge for stinging me when I was just
standing off to the side with my energy levels
When Brendan complained about how many
times he got stung, I reminded him, while
unflinchingly scratching away at young drones
about to hatch, that we were the thieves and
(I still didn't put honey in my tea, but I certainly
wouldn't have felt bad about it.)
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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