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Them BoysBoys only like you scraping your knees.
They tell you your hair smells nice and that your dress is very pretty, but they don’t care, and you don’t mind, because you’ve been secretly thinking you’re ugly.
Boys don’t cry.
They produce a small kidney stone every time they hold in tears, so they don’t lose manliness.
But you can literally try crying at a packed bus station, and no one will stop to look at you.
I wish I were on my knees for you. I wish you said something nice, even lied about something nice.
I don’t know, I don’t care.
NoticeFragile existence. One day you're annoying your parents, watering your plants, consuming tea, and producing organic waste, the next, you realize, you're just your carbon footprint, a post-it on the fridge, white noise of an old television.
This memory from 7 years ago. Random unflattering photograph. Eye shadow in the back of the washing machine.
People around you should change this notion you don't matter.
People should matter.
I should matter.
They should notice if you haven't been yourself in months, or if your eyes look puffy all the time.
They should care.
Just notice me.
Someone, notice me.
AvoidWhat a strange idea.
If the chandelier were to fall on me, from that specific altitude, it would crush my ribcage, I'd die in a matter of thirty-four minutes.
It would be such a terrible accident.
A tragedy, really.
Some uncrafty builders and their awful ceiling installations.
"She was a promising human being."
Just to avoid the embarrassment of suicide.
They say it's a word that's used to describe when people wish to express a feeling of nostalgia for a place they've never visited.
For years I dreamt of busy cityscapes of Beijing, London, or a simple a mountain cabin up in the north, very far from where I am.
I lost that feeling. You shouldn't get nostalgic for blocks of concrete, or the suitable weather, I suppose. It bears no meaning. Not really.
When I close my eyes, I register your fingers on my forearms, I can imagine the perfect hug. I brush my cheek off the rough texture of your sweater, and with every deep breath I seem to inhale old books, wet ground, and a vaguely present scent of mulberry.
All of that from just seeing you once, twice, maybe, if you count thinking that might have been you, in a yellow Volkswagen automobile passing my side, on a particularly sad day, and me looking away, out of fear it actually is you.
I wonder is there a pretty foreign word for being homesick for people you've never actually
A dayI cried in the locker room - no one noticed.
I cried on the bus on my way home. This old couple was staring at me - their faces phasing between pity and disgust. No one asked me if I was okay.
Why did I cry?
I don't know.
There's one or maybe two major fuck ups in my life. Like telling dad I'd rather kill myself than be seen with him, and actually meaning it, or that time I pretended I couldn't hear the blind guy asking for help across the street. These things are horrifyingly true, but they happened ages ago, yet I perpetually feel so bad, about that, about me, about everything.
I guess, today was about a piece of trash teacher accused me of copying my schoolwork, and running into a guy who called me dumb a year and a half ago.
Anything qualifies today.
It's just one of those days I feel like dying.
InaptHere I am at two AM on Google maps virtually strolling down a snowy scenery of somewhere, thinking every possible photograph of the world has been already taken, and nothing I can do can ever amaze anyone.
I wish there was a punchline.
A lover, so doughy eyed and gentle, so living with him should be considered artistry - as a reward from the Universe that cares for those not gifted enough to offer something better. Here have some love, cause your anguish won't produce a masterpiece.
Yet, I get to turn in my bed for nothing more than vacant introspection that can't bring epiphany to someone distant, a strong sense of disability of relating to anybody.
Here have some courage, live the life you dream of painting. Live so big, so extravagant your existence becomes an inspiration to those capable of amazing.
I wish this has an optimistic ending, but no, it's two AM, and I'm sitting here, in the dark of my room, wasting my time thinking of various clichés to des
If I had a therapist, I'd show him thisDepression centers me.
It feels good to feel low, for a while, before the seed of it overgrows me.
Like a moldy cover that sticks to my skin, and doesn't let me get up.
It compliments my anxieties, at first. The pressure of doing something perfectly is met by a will to be invisible, and not having a single ambitious thought, so I end up somewhere in the middle, very average, and goddamn safe.
The hurtful brightness of my woeful apprehensiveness is washed out by the most beautiful, silent greys.
Thank you for being mean.
liarthere's nothing more sad than seeing someone loves that thing you stopped being ages ago. I will never go back to being that disgusting, little, unsure thing, but I can't stop lying to you.
car crashI wish I could crash in your tiny bed, after a long day at Uni. You'd creep up behind me, and hold me with your strong, spider arms, and plant kisses on my neck, and ideas of a bigger apartment in my mind.
"Some day, we'll have thirteen cats."
Scent of basic soap and tomato sauce.
Addicted to Messy Kisses (Visual) I want to sit on the
roof top in your boxers and kiss
you while listening to you telling me about
the stars that made the constellations on my
face. I want to kiss you when you photograph me,
because that's what I want to remember: loving you
endlessly and boundlessly. I want to kiss you when you
are too tired and too drunk, and watch you slobbering all
over me, while I laugh in your breath on my lips. I want to
kiss you in libraries, when you'll blush and tell me to sto
organized chaosHis brain's like
reflecting muted light.
His brain is architecturally sound,
with perfect corners
organized into neat sections,
metal cutting the spectrum
into cautious pieces.
He tells me he's nothing.
He tells me that he's grown up
from the cracks in the sidewalk
like a dandelion,
and he's been waiting his whole life
for someone to come along
and blow his fucking head off.
He tells me he comes from a bad place,
and I nod
when all I want to do is shake him
and remind him
that everything beautiful
must grow up out of the dirt.
Lover, I will try to forget you.The moon is braiding
her sighs into my hair
as I tell her 'I
dislike the thought
of being perfect.
Even more because
I always tried for him.'
There is turbulence
in these bones as he
ghosts past me and
into the skyline.
Perhaps it is time
I stop following.
BloodlustIn our private heaven
We satisfy our bloodlust
By breaking each other's skin
With a shinny blade
And tasting the crimson flow
The flow of life
A life of lust and love
The love we feel
For each other
A bloody and guilty love
Of voluntary wounds
And beautiful scars
Our reason to live
Our dirty secret
A secret we both carry
With great pleasure
The only way
We can feel happiness
Two LilliesI found my soul,
in a white lily atop a hill,
a red wine sunset
splashed against the sky.
My heart felt her before
I could see,
the flower strongly rooted
petals blowing with a battle cry
against the wind.
The gusts overtime,
testing and strengthening
the precious growth
roots sewn deep.
I sat beside,
your petals open wide
nothing left to hide,
shades of white
despite the soil you came from.
Yet alone you sit
a secret scent,
for me to enjoy
as I read a book,
and talk to you about everything and nothing.
Late into the night.
dew like tear drops,
and I couldn't take you home with me
but I would return again,
Until the day I join you.
How the waves tasted your anklesSince you are the only sailor
of the sea that my moon-
child eyes so easily bleed,
I crumble to shoreline pieces
every time I press my lips
to half-neglected sea glass,
haunted by visions of the way
you rolled cherries on your tongue.
StarsYou fill me up with bubbles,
dreams and futures floating for me.
Using a line of chalk to draw my life plans on me,
outlining where we can go together.
Stars scribbled across my forehead,
highway across my belly.
Breathing in the cars, making a map of our love.
Peaches and CreamPour me a palette of autumn peach,
blend it in the basin of almond milk,
and let it fuse into my cheeks.
Stir memories of a rustic kiss,
a solemn wooden swing.
A gush of wind and its retreat.
An ounce of rain above my brow.
The sentiment of you and me –
the eyes of burning bronze.
An instant left to cling...
...the original blush
of peaches and cream.
StrippedI long for a life of not a single responsibility, but your precious frail heart.
As we'll stumble upon each other, like onto an atlas of a forgotten district - you'll appreciate the lines on my face for they are an estuary of an ancient river, and I'll cherish the working blisters on your strong hands for they stood out proud of their diligence.
I haven't any other propositions. Affections shouldn't be afflictions, they should be easy and painless, smooth and transparent.
Complexity's never on the table.
Perfection of Monotony is.
a dangerous hallucinationThe light coming through the window was bright,
much too bright.
Even though my eyes were closed
I could see it-
The skin of my arms prickled,
sweat dripped from my brow.
It was two in the afternoon but…
the sun was setting
through the window facing east.
I should have seen the hutch,
shelves lined with bone china
decorated with delicate leaves and vines.
I was so thirsty
and reaching for cups that should have been there.
Instead I found a billboard of butterflies,
the colors raging
more than any rainbow
I'd ever seen.
Their wings fluttered and flashed
yet somehow they moved in slow motion.
I wanted to stand,
wanted to reach out and touch them but…
I couldn't move,
and yet I laughed
ignoring my dry mouth
and the tingling in my feet.
There was a tempest
on the rise
and in my blood.
A sugar rush disguised
as a riot of butterflies
and they were swarming me.
There was a small vial
of insulin in my pocket
that I nev
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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