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i think about you when i puke:july is hot, the earth drips gold and poetry
my fingers pressed down to alleviate
a night of emotion and movement
that i will empty into lilac fields of numbness and indifference, still
the quiet and the calm
my mind roaming from good and sweetness
to strapping my shoes on and leaving,
leaving and sneaking in and heaving,
heaving with my words churning up:
fuck you, fuck them, fuck him, fuck her.
nothing's beautiful here, i say in my mind
and i mean it, i mean it, i mean, what else could i think--
why feel when you can bleed?
why eat when you can puke?
why dream when you can ache?
why love when you can fuck?
on the terms of addiction i am well versed, and they know this
they tumble my nicknames, my name,
hannah becomes heroin,
my red hair and i ascending, too beautiful
and i'm spilling out, slicing open
i found a smudge of your mascara on my thighs
from times where we were smoke and tendrils
underwater movement, thick air too much to breathe
soft fluid to lie low, drippy with our gems
we are no longer ...i fell in love with you on a tuesday. the autumn air lingered on my tongue and sense of rebirth tingled beneath the surfaces of my eyelids. i was a a breathing model of the solar system i made in grade school, mimicking movements without purpose. i instated thought above soul and head shadowed heart. my eyes were draped in the haze of self-deprecation and a doubt filled my lungs and spilled onto the floor at my feet, winding in rivers that only once more were absolved and recycled by my own central command.
i smiled at you on a wednesday. our eyes were ions of opposite charge, and our electricity was evident. you gave me signals like a road sign; your were clear in your directions but passed so fast i often found myself feeling as though your traffic laws were in fact forgeries.
i wrote my first poem for you on a friday. i aligned syllables and vowels and verfied consonants to splay my soul for my own eyes to see. i sculpted you with words, chiseling away at the ethereal eyes that igni
Find HerFind the girl with the soot-blackened refugee eyes.
She'll be the one wearing pigeon feathers and French lace,
Bruised and barefoot under a threadbare sky
With kerosene drip-drip-dripping from her heartsick hands.
I think she misses you.
these are the last things i'll say before i'm goneIf I had to give a name to what I'm feeling I would just call it disappearing. Because it's exactly like the way that you can know everything about someone one day and nothing the next. It's the quick death love has that leaves you wanting more or wanting it back in the best and worst of ways.
If I had to explain I would say this feeling is something like standing outside of your door at four in the morning, even though I know I shouldn't be here, wearing the same wrinkled clothes I had on the day before, wanting nothing more than to beg to come home, but knowing better, because following the motions isn't really the best follow through.
I won't admit how much I miss you I can't, but I can tell you this.
The thing about disappearing is that it doesn't stop me from wanting to be completely impossible to forget. And maybe that's a bit of an anomaly, but I've never made much sense to begin with anyway.
And sure, we're all different in the same ways, but I want to be differen
So She Can Forget That--She knows the French for hummingbird and he can divide fractions in his head,
and none of it means a thing anymore.
She's pictureimperfect and happilyneverafter, and he's playing guardian angel.
She already knows all your secrets, and he's got too many of his own to have
space for any more.
She knows just how to take his heart to pieces, and he could shakeherapart
in the blink of an eye.
She's made a mess of him, and somehow he still can't look away.
She's unfamiliar to herself, but it's ok because she's learnt him off by heart,
stitchbysinglestitch, and he's happier not knowing.
She's clawing at her own skin to find buried silver, while he's happy enough
with not being able to get her off his mind.
She dances with the dark because she just can't tear herself a w a y; he
does it because if he doesn't, he knows he'll lose her to it.
She's slowly slippingthroughhisfingers and part
SorryI'm sorry that life isn't black and white,
Sorry that I can't be your shining knight.
I'm sorry that I make you feel this pain,
Sorry that I just do it again and again.
I'm sorry that I'm never here nor there,
Sorry that it feels like I just don't care.
I'm sorry for all the stupid things I say,
Sorry for the way I was just yesterday.
I'm sorry for the agony left in my wake,
Sorry for the promises I always break.
I'm sorry for the person I'm failing to be,
Sorry that all you have left is just me.
I'm sorry for the times I left you broken,
Sorry you think my love is just a token.
I'm sorry for being a really crappy friend,
Sorry for wondering how it's going to end.
I'm sorry for the silence between us two,
Sorry that the best thing about me is you.
I'm sorry for the way we argue and fight,
Sorry for...I'm sorry for everything, alright?
i'm godthe other night
i drove home from your house and i
felt the incredible pull of life slipping at me,
out from under my skin. if you think about it,
if you really think about loving me,
it probably doesn't seem like a good idea.
i'm decomposing from the inside out, or maybe
i kill myself as the world
nibbles on my skin, and we are both
confusing each other
with strange concepts and conceptions.
videos playing in our minds,
soundless flashbacks of water
and the perfect shade of warm blue,
that fucking shade
of water that will always be paired
with the yellow of my hand, something
indiscriminate to the picture yet temperate,
loving, keeping me the wary unbeknownst
as my life twisted on it underbelly and squirmed.
there are crows in the trees that scream my name
and yours, alternating for each oil shine of their feathers.
when i look at them, i dream of flying.
when they look at me,
they do not dream of walking.
we are all terribly sad about i
you have pretty legsdear j, hurt me.
i feel you when i sleep, injected into dreams
you are the only girl who would ever say i'm broken
and still love me. love me more. my thoughts of you are
serpentine, dark, dreaming: women are this way
being a woman, loving a woman, this brings me to
the depths of mystery, unexplored hollows and
untold secrets, stories we cannot recount, hinting.
loving a woman is reaching blindly for your own heart
with needle-tipped fingers, smoke escaping from
the many dialects of your tongue, animalistic,
blood spitting, nails ripping open layers of internal flesh,
opening things that shouldn't, can't,
your words drip from me, soundless as red water,
my blood filling with the dirt of my poetry, empires
of detriment, devoted paragons, parted lips
swaying hips, slivers of exposed skin to touch.
i am your animus, your wayward house, a shattered
window, a visceral dame, a choked vociferation,
a whispering cunt in blue tights, a flower in the forest
Helena's RevengeSmoky, lust-crinkled cataracts
Stretch tautly over blinding eyes--
He does not love me
But I could shatter his scorched soul
In this second and not look back.
This cruelly inspired charade
Is devastatingly convincing.
I have mimed this scene
Over and over to the point of tedium
In forbidden daydreams
And now he surreally voices
My half-conscious delusions.
I am almost willing
To sacrifice myself
To this façade...
Let him follow me, unfulfilled
In mindless devotion
As I once shadowed him,
Desperate to the point of numbness.
Keep in Touch!
Bluefley has a gallery filled with artwork that whisks you off in to a Sci-fi daydream, and keeps you captivated for hours. Marc has been a member of our community for over a decade and has achieved nothing but success with his astounding commitment to interacting with the community, sharing a prolific amount of video tutorials and generally being an all round rockstar deviant. It is no joke that we are absolutely delighted to award the Deviousness Award for April 2014 to ... Read More