her spine was dusk
and unmade nests,
but he tried to live there
he was neither nocturnal
nor a dawn-believer,
so he suffocated
in the birdhouse of her ribs.
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enter: therapyfingers in the mouth,
pulling each ‘bad’ out, and
drowning in the screaming
that god is never watching
before meds swallow whole brains
and the wavelengths trying to terminate
a morosely-colored mind.
(but they were never mine.)
cutleryfall up the moon,
and talk if you want
(but she might not talk back).
one word to use but fingers
hailing with skins, and bones, and
maybe even the veins of a poet
saying there's not enough razors
to open her lungs.
fall up the moon,
and talk if you want
(but kneecap letters
and river-run wrists
might never talk back).
burning bridgesHe planted hope into her spine,
in the hope each hunch
would water it.
It grew crooked vertebrae
and aching knobs that bruised
beneath his calloused thumb;
eventually hunching was all
she could do to maintain herself.
Sometimes she’d curl herself
into a ball so small,
that even his voice
dare not reach her.
but she choked on his rain
and she grew his name
until her remains
were hunching soil.
Though I be oceansIf I push you away, do not leave, for I am probably in the chasm of a pain so wide, it swallows me in days. It’ll spit me out eventually, and dear I’m sorry if I hurt you, but I hope you’d be there to tie me down. I still do not know how to love without being broken and splintered in so many places, that I’d hope you’d be forgiving, despite the stakes I aim at us.
If I throw those broken ‘me’s at you, please lock them back inside of me… and know it was not you whom I was remembering. Know it was not the present I was lost in, but the past, and give me time to reinstall my gravity. I trust and love your prints, but my brain stumbles over fingers: They can be used as hooks, and I was a fish once before, but lord never again.
If I forget your touch within the memories of another, please sink your fingerprints into my lungs so I may breathe nothing but you and ‘now.’
If there comes a time when I forget the ‘now,’ plea
grandfatherwhose cheeks were mazes
worn from silent tears,
wrinkles nests like homes
burned through and lived.
whose mazes I discarded apathy
into - into December nightmares
of trenches filled with snow-screams,
God only present in the miracle of an inch.
"I thought you'd be around [to speak them] forever."
He's beneath the flag...and I hope
he smiles, beneath Mable-colored
fields of whatever heaven is...
and I hope God loves him more
than I do--did.
(and a ghost-
lip later, only God
knows if you heard me)
“You’re winter… someone unknown—unfeeling,” I am told by the inferno minds of mothers, poison ivy-handed and strangled by a sorrow far deeper than blue trenches… and perhaps, then, bruises are truly meant as warmth for starving hearts.
When you browbeat desolation with the same fist, I drown and sob in nailboards, your absence pinned within my throat.
“You’re nothing but deserving,” I am told by stainless steel and death, angry and hidden alongside pillow-roofs and prayers. And maybe I don’t believe in god as I believe in it, directing midnight shadows through the intersections of scar tissue. I am only known by five white walls.
weightless and dizzy-faced, they are the only true friends: iron-lipped and stable.
“You’re too pretty to be so shy,” I am told by a man with fishing hooks for fingers… so I sing and sigh in song, like sirens ‘neath his boat.
I am skinned from the sea three
UntitledI covered my head with rosemary—breathed them so far in, I planted a seed and the seed did grow, and feast, in me. I held myself like trees and tried to grow fingers, and feelings, but the sky wouldn’t keep me safe—stone shoulders and calling names who would not hear, knees soul-stained and dripping with the phantom touch of you.
Be the lightning in me, and forgive the fire, for I thought I’d roast my ribs to black—a soul-eater, and a thief to such small sympathies… but it’s okay, love, it’s okay: be you here or there, your home is now inside me, and I will breathe you safely.
red giantI will be brave while the birds scavenge,
while the storms devastate, because no one
else will hold me together like moonlight
and apparitions in a rear-view city’s landscape.
I will be brave when I don’t fit together
in all the
right places—when making spine bridges
ceases to have meaning for any other purpose
than for granting you passage,
because my boat is only big enough
for pasts and for ghosts, and you will not stop pretending
to be nests, and lighthouses, that call me
home to port when I’ve spent too many days in the depths
in the tsunamis of myself.
I will be brave when the wave crests
and leaves me nothing more than swallowed
(footprints in forgotten sand, another particle to furnish
the world and to hold your feet, because no one else will hold me
in a way of tangibility but you, and I grow weary of being my best
in the pretenses of the sun.)
And There Was Lighti.
He was seventeen when he died.
I never went to the funeral
but I walked past it the day of
the service. His mother
was in the backseat of a blue Dodge,
door open, head in her hands.
"My baby," she kept repeating.
"My baby." It would go from sobbing, to
screaming, to a soft whisper that
I could only hear being carried
on the wind.
It was a Wednesday afternoon that they found
his old red pickup truck parked
out front of Slim's, two beer bottles in
the back and the windows cracked to let the stale
I heard that his dad told the police he was
gonna take that old truck and fix it up, because
he had promised his son before—
because it's always in the before—
And in the after, his mother never had dry eyes
and I'm pretty sure my mom told me
that she saw his dad at the bar every night,
drinking his sorrows down because some people can't
handle the stress.
Some people can't figure out why their son would
"Some men just want to w
home is where the heart isit's bathroom floors
that know me best;
they've never refused
to hold me in times
my fingers have seized
and clutched rugs that
rest beside porcelain
kings more often than
they have held the
hands of my lovers,
and gritty, freezing tile
is a perfect cradle
for my fevered cheek.
more toilet bowls
know my secrets than
people, and my tears run
it's bathrooms floors
that are my unmarked
graves, my nightly
after my sins have
been admitted, i cannot
look myself in the mirror,
much less the
eye of god.
someday i will cut my hairsomeday i will cut my hair,
let the dresser do her worst
will watch the ends go first, light
from holding all of the sun, hear the
sharpness of the shears, will feel
buoyant, and alright
and leave the dark waves behind --
someday i will bind my hands
with golden bands, will let a
man lace his fingers
through the spaces between mine,
palm to palm, squeezing tight
like a promise kept
but not yet, not yet -
for now i will spread my
Things I would Tell Her--C.I want to tell her the things
I'll tell her when she’s older,
but the information terrifies her.
In order of importance:
she has luna moths in her head,
monarch butterflies in her stomach,
and a feral fetus in her womb.
are collapse-clasped and folded
in her lap;
she holds her elbows like wings
away from her ribs,
ready to flap,
I want to tell her
to keep one hand in her purse
so she can always find her keys,
to keep an eye on the door
and the door always open
so she can run if she doesn't feel safe,
but her cheeks are rorschach-splotch red
and the tension in her shoulders
warns me she's not ready
to hear this.
And there is the possibility that
maybe I’m not ready to tell
I’m just as devastated as her;
that she is surrounded by friends and family
who are violated by a community
where no man can say yes all men.
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.
beauty is a state of mindforgiveness is the
scent the violet leaves
on the foot that stomped it;
I am beautiful in remembrance:
I am beautiful
in a body two sizes too
large, in eyes dilated
with questions (eyes
you cannot name; gray
like the ocean, blue
like the heart, green like
the fever dream I cannot
wake from) I am the
hair of a lion, a wild
thing, ignition upon
tempted glance. I am the skin
you cannot name, always fleeting;
you always see
but never truly take in.
and I know a boy
carved of ivory silence,
how to discover a justified reason for lovei want nothing more than to visit italy.
i do not want to see the crumbling colosseum,
nor do i want to fall in love
with a charming, dark-haired italian boy
working at the gelato place in sicily
who compares my eyes to stars in broken english.
i want to see the tiny town
where my grandmother was raised,
to know the rolling hills
that lie between the church and the horizon,
to see the house where she and her mother
made large loaves of bread to be given out to family,
to listen to the sounds of birds
on the farm she gave up multiplication tables for
where the men drank wine and played accordions
and the women shook tablecloths and laughed haunting melodies,
and where soldiers marched and searched
and marched and searched
and marched and kicked
and shot and left.
i want to know why she traveled,
a family of smiling emigrants in tow,
to a country they'd only ever dreamt of dreaming.
i want to hear the whispers of an eager family
from before it was left divided by the bitterness
note to selfgo ahead-
forge a few signatures
onto your curving
those wavering shoulders
believable because soon
enough will not be
can you guess
where you're going?
you're being dragged
headlong into an
ocean of void,
and do you think
that's all you'll ever be?
take the specks
of gold in your
greying eyes and
hold them in your
scatter them through
dictionary pages and
blades of grass
and metallic dreams.
lose yourself in
fantasies of wine
and subtle reds,
then find yourself
in train stations
a decade from today.
they want a messy
crisp white paper
and a suitcase filled with
want sweet calligraphy
on napkins, walls
paper cuts and
long sleeves to hide them
want guitar string
even if it means
you sleep on train tracks
and scream and bleed
and swallow pride,
you never want to touch
another ballpoint pen
so throw yourself in the fir
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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