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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.
I locked my heart in a mahogany box and threw away the key.
There was no one to care for - there was nothing left for me.
My heart had ceased beating long ago
after years of misery and pain.
Through countless highs and lecherous lows
I became immune to pounding rain.
I walked without even my shadow as a friend.
Numb to all emotions that surfaced to my skin.
Knowing I would be alone to the bitter end
suffering the consequences of sin.
I was shunned and shamed -
bruised and maimed.
No one cared - no one knew.
No one bothered to change my view.
My life was a silent movie
of a language no one spoke.
With plenty of plot holes for all to see
and an ending of mirrors and smoke.
It was getting hard to catch my breath.
Surely death would be oh so sweet.
Addicted to the thought like Crystal Meth,
it skipped through my head like an erratic beat.
She stumbled upon a key that washed up on the shore.
Wondering what it could unlock.
Determined to solve the riddle and explor
You AreI am the moon,
And you are the sun,
I pale in comparison to you.
I am a student,
And you are a professor.
I cant keep up with you.
I am a snowflake,
And you are a blizzard,
I will never be like you.
I am a tree,
And you are a fire,
You can destroy me easily.
I am a star,
And you are the universe.
You are simply my everything.
I shrug into Harry's shirt
underneath my autumn scarf--
cologne on the cuffs bringing
color as I close my eyes,
the brown of his hair,
laughter, pine green.
Fingers on marbled buttons
smooth as the cream
he puts in his chai.
I think of him like rain on a Sunday,
a slow breath uttered in calm,
eyes shut to listen,
he is peace,
stability in grayer moments.
He is the space in my empty bed
I ache for him the way
I crave prayer and
the feel of a rosary.
Locks of LoveI haven't cut my hair
Since just before
I walked across the stage
Sixteen months ago.
I grew it out
Because, last summer, you loved
To run your fingers
Through its coppery threads.
That always made me feel
When you left for school again in August,
I couldn't bring myself
To get a haircut.
What if you came back,
And this time, my heart was ready for you?
Mid-semester, you told me that,
While you and your friends
Built your school's bonfire,
It was customary
That no one cut his hair
Or even shaved
Until the structure was finished.
I don't think I told you
That I let mine continue to grow
In your honor, except
I didn't cut it on Burn Day.
When we kissed on Christmas Eve,
You weaved your fingers
Through my silken locks
And made me feel beautiful once more.
I still didn't cut my hair,
Even after you left in March,
Save for the split ends
I trimmed in May,
Hoping to eradicate negative energy
But not wanting to let go of you.
Now it's September.
If I Were A Love PoetFor my Laban. For my love.
Sometimes, often enough
when my thoughts are consumed
with you- I find myself wishing
that I was a love poet.
Wouldn’t it be beautiful
to piece words together so artistically
that I could make people understand
what it’s like to miss hands
that have never held me?
Wouldn’t it be the damnedest thing,
if I could make a stranger
know how it feels to kiss you?
Sweetly, passionately, softly
Hesitantly- and yet all at once?
Even though their lips have never met yours,
Even though our lips have never met.
How lovely would it be
to sanely, yet romantically
explain to my parents what it’s like
to fall asleep with you?
We could tell them how you giggle when I beg you
to be the big spoon- because I feel like it’s to much responsibility.
We could tell them about the sleepy kisses you give me
at 3 a.m when you find me searching for
thuggish loverno more on love. tell me
instead of the hearts you've
beaten, and the way
they kept on
lukedon't leave me again;
the seasons flutter by with
the blink of spider web eyelashes
twirled around the pieces of
my decaying heart, molded
and renewed with the dawn
of your spring palms.
my senses spark in a
drunken flood of desire;
i refuse to wash away
our finger-painted memories
into the grasping swallow of
an atlantic undertow, but
the stale taste of vodka
sleeps under my palette.
you don't arc your silver
tongue to sip my salted
gums or latch your fists
into bird's nest tangled curls
--anymore, and the shivers
of shadows spin down my
splintered spine, the snap
of a twig between your
i'm alone; your cosmic dreams
and galactic eroticism treads
underneath another damsel's
breast, an arrow to her heart.
I wallow, naked and discarded,
drinking and drowning in the
alcoholic buzz of your sweat
on my tongue, all along knowing
you and i will never love again.
Epiphanyhearken when healing
from the hurt of love hamstrung
the hander of the handkerchief
may be your heart’s hope
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.
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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