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Deviant for 7 Years
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Literature
bushels
i have hoarded my fruits.
the bushels weigh heavy on my tongue.
i cannot tell you of their tartness, their sweetness,
their shiny skins threatening to burst
juice thick as sap
or their quiet fuzz
daylight humming over downturned wrists
all this
locked away for this external winter
i cannot let their cheeks brush jack’s frosty lips
i cannot let their seeds be swallowed by a kiss
the only thing that grows in the warmblooded belly
is hunger
when sunlight hums over the reclined axis
my mouth will finally come apart
as warm winds peel back the eyes of buds
you are the bee on my iris
i am not afraid to be stung, i won’t bat a lash
but when my mouth falls apart
i cannot be sure if i will spill wine
or tumble rot.
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Literature
power outlet
I visit him in my sleep, it’s the only place where it’s safe to
Where the kisses don’t plant seeds like wrong ideas
To bloom in the empty spaces I left behind
I know he is fighting the same battle,
We fight on the same front
But we no longer stand side by side
And I worry because his only attack is to be defensive
And my only weapon is a pen
I never jab at anyone’s throat but mine
There is a reason I have carved these shark gills,
So if you give me just one taste of your blood
You will realize that if I am fed
I don’t need to be loved
And yes, I loved him, I love him, I will love him
And my heart looks harmless hanging by the wall
But it is a power outlet
And his affection was a metal fork
I didn’t take the cutlery when I left
Because I want him to have another stab at love
I want it to be like cake
Because I was all slice
I am carbon monoxide  
When you are in my bed it will feel like nature
It will feel like nurture
You won’t remember yo
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Mature content
awakening :iconqueenofrelax:queenofrelax 1 0
Literature
carbonation
carbonation
always bitter
snapping against the soft walls of my mouth
inciting the consequence of swallowing soap
yet here i am now, i am shaken,
violently disturbed
in the most glorious fashion
like the stirring of ice in a cocktail
metal and grooved glass
like the brittle leaves shed like a winter coat
papery bristling funneled in witchy winds
and there is not much else
for which i can remember having such a fondness,
to feel it within myself is a pleasure above all others,
nothing is sweeter than this flurry,
this rattling
this egg hatching
i am a gong booming
out to the universe, to all life and stone
“come–come–come–come”,
i am a black hole,
i am becoming too much,
i am not a black hole,
i hold onto nothing
but my faith
my love
and the belief
that all things come and all things go,
and i am meant to love it all
as the wind allows birds to be carried on its breeze.
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Literature
i miss saying 'i love you'
i miss his beautiful hands,
how they cracked my spine gently
like a book,
peeled me gingerly
like an orange–
his favourite juice–
i miss his soft guinness kiss
square on my lips and
circular between my thighs,
that smile like dawn breaking,
the corners of his mouth
lifting away the darkness.
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Literature
and i am a grenade
you are a land mine beneath my shifting sole–
my instincts tell me to run but the danger keeps me planted.
my heart is open as a storm drain,
i will swallow all the bad for just a taste of something sweet,
i have three others sucking at my fingertips
but it’s your little finger i want to wrap myself around,
you twisted tree, you burning bush,
you are the spindle on which i want to prick myself
and enter the realm of endless dreaming,
i’m hanging, waiting for you to gut me like a fish
but your edge has eroded,
you soft rock, you exoskeleton,
remember when you thought you were too much for me?
remember when you said no one could lose interest
if they knew what was good for them?
when did you decide my soils were fertile with poison?
when did you decide to pick out all your seeds?
you opened me up like a closet,
expecting to find bones but ended up with blood on your shoes–
you can walk away but i am on the backs of your heels,
and you opened me up like a flower
ex
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Literature
do me no good
masked men keep throwing roses like darts--
they have terrible aim,
i spend my mornings plucking thorns
from my breasts
my cheeks
my inner thighs,
i don’t even want their love,
they ask for my poetry
as though it’ll lead them to the bullseye
but i’ll never wave that red flag.
i let them look,
i let them touch,
the truth is i put my heart in new hands everyday,
mostly of those i have not met.
they say ‘you’re mine’
and i wonder if they’ve ever tried to capture smoke,
if they’ve ever successfully put their arms
around the sound of thunder.
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Mature content
you wouldn't have to beg :iconqueenofrelax:queenofrelax 0 0
Literature
you are the volcano and i am the cloud
i spend time thinking about you,
you are the pendulum in my clock head,
you are the wax and the wane,
you are the whirlpool.
i am trying not to get sucked in
but i think about how you grabbed parts of me
and for a moment i wanted to forget how to breathe.
you are the glass half full.
i am a basketball in your hands.
it’s no game i haven’t played before
but you’re tearing up my patience,
turning it into paper planes.
when you say you like me
my mouth is full of salt.
never more have i felt so dull.
i am the ash
and you are the phoenix.
you are the explosion
and i am the smoke.
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Mature content
god forbid you :iconqueenofrelax:queenofrelax 0 0
Literature
the sign said 'closed'
oh get me sad, darling,
how’d you know i like it rough
a tough heart
only strengthens the jaw
and my bones have been begging
for some bending
how’d you know to do me like that
pushed buttons i thought were broken
got me writin’ like a fool again
feelin’ heavy in the night again
exactly one month ago
i was cracked like a sidewalk
no getting out of the ground
now you’ve cracked me open
like a door, darling,
how’d you know it wasn’t locked
from the inside, darling?
how’d you know
it wasn’t sealed tight?
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Literature
the devil
ted hughes told me
about sylvia’s god,
i’m sure he would agree
upon observation
that you are my satan,
my fire-tongued
angel
sharpening
all my pencils
down to their last inches
and
stealing my pens,
i find their corpses
in my purse
like candy wrappings,
like vampire victims
and when i taste
their blue blood
on the inside of your lips
i know,
you taste like my poetry
that i won’t be able
to write later
when you are on
the other side of town,
getting high
from a blunt you rolled
with my notebook paper
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Literature
skeleton
we met up after dark,
i thought i was afraid
of finding mold
of floating through a locked door
to see you already
have a ghost,
but i’m terrified there’s not
a single bone
hanging between your coats
because there are five coats
of paint on my walls--
i keep masking the stench
of the bodies behind them
and i’m frightened
that not a finger on your hands
has ever squashed a bug
just to see the words
that you could spell out
in its blood
because i have written
entire poems
with the veins
of someone i once
thought i loved,
i am scared you are
not human but i am petrified
that you have never
been a monster
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Literature
paid prayers
this temple’s up to five pills daily
my christ’s bread
reading from prescription scripture
praying to the pharmacy gods
for refill miracles
turn these pressed powders
into nonrepressible pleasures
brew wonders from the whines
push twist pop sip-
ping the grape juice
of my saviour
medicate me a believer
that after three days of sleep
i can come back to life
but provider,
i do confess
i collect sins
like empty beer bottles
i’m not yet sure i will cash in
because medication
looks like dedication
and devotion
is not something
i want stapled shut
and priced
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Literature
mirage
black-eyed raccoon
making jackson pollocks
with the trash,
that ain’t eyeliner
and i’d never
paint those striped tails
to look like green finch
and linnet birds
keeping my demons
dreaming
but who am i
to say you don’t
see what you believe
when you could be
a glistening mirage
as i let heaven’s eye
stare off my clothes
crossing deserts
looking for my muse,
hoping it will know me
by my bare skin
because fuck,
i am certain
that needle and ink
could not possibly
leave a stain
when used to write
about what isn’t
really there
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Literature
on the delicate side
on the delicate side of his forearms,
i think about the veins branched like ivy
the ones i grazed like harp strings
in a cathedral, afraid to wake an angel,
are they full of gold?
does he sell his heart by the pound—
how much has he already sold?
does he paint his lower organs red
and try to sell me those instead
knowing i have never seen
a real heart in the flesh?
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:iconhemolittoral:
hemolittoral Featured By Owner Dec 28, 2015  Student Writer
wonderful poetry :rose:
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(1 Reply)
:iconabalex:
ABAlex Featured By Owner Dec 25, 2013
Happy birthday!
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:iconlalapejax:
lalapejax Featured By Owner May 4, 2013
:heart: right back at you!
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:iconsilverinkblot:
SilverInkblot Featured By Owner Apr 14, 2013  Hobbyist Writer
Thank you for the collect on Surrogate :heart:
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(1 Reply)
:icondisrhythmic:
disrhythmic Featured By Owner Apr 14, 2013
Your poetry is beautiful. :heart:
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(1 Reply)
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