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Starving sleep and apologies.My sleep is starving.
It is shivering sweat like snow
across my shoulders as I sob scream
after scream against your skin;
"sorry, I'm so sorry,
go back to sleep."
I am sad
and struggling to stay
together but you slump
against my sickness
and hold me
Love letter to myself.Small handed girl,
you've written the truth
of your scars wherever there's
space to write it
and I love you.
They painted over
the rape you wrote about
on the front door of
your Uncle's house
and I love you.
They took the floorboards
of your bedroom out where you'd
carved the shape of your
father's fist into their
and I love you.
You shook the sand of
your fifteenth birthday out of
your hair and into a jar
you keep under the bed to
remember a girl with crooked
teeth and bony knees who
fled and flew
and I love you.
You've built yourself into a
fortress with nothing but your
fingernails and shredded skin
and you let him in when he
waited by the door instead of
forcing his way
and I love you.
Be gentle, love.Be gentle,
my body is too heavy
hollowed out and
filled back up
Be gentle, love.
Be gentle and
let me lay here,
still and silent,
until my emptiness
For you, no more.I have spent
most of my life holding my breath
above the waves,
just in case
they break me down
And I have spent
most of my life drowning in love
for hearts too full to home me,
propping myself up with cardboard
promises and sorry tarpaulins.
And I have spent
most of my life living for other
people; a doormat for woes and
loneliness; a spare body in their
bed at night.
I say no more.
I have been too sad to tell you.I have been too sad
to tell you that I love you
when I am tearing my hair out
and smashing my bones on the floor
to make myself whole.
And I have been too sad
to tell you that I love you
when you are keeping my hands
from pulling at my skin,
when you are holding my body down to the
safety of the floor with your arms wrapped
around my chest as though maybe they can
keep my sadness still.
But lover, I am not too sad
to write this poem backwards on
your face with my lips.
I hope that one
day you look in the mirror
and it's there, loving you
as much as I do.
Six lessons on love.One. Sometimes love will move so slowly
you will stop waiting for its arrival. You will become an
open bar and you will be drained and drained until one
day you open the door to let last night out and love has
left a calling card on the doormat.
Be patient. Let love come to you piece by piece
until you are full to the brim with it.
Two. Some days it will feel
like love has come for you with a wildfire
at its heels. Let it come; you were
meant to burn brighter than any sun or
star we care to name.
Three. Growing back after burning down
is a sign to leave old loves behind. Let them
go kindly. Wrap them up in tissue paper and
ribbon and give them a kiss goodbye. Be gentle but
Do not use maybe. Do not look back.
Four. Love can hurt and you will let it
because you are in love. It will spit venom and
throw fists until you stand up and throw
Be strong, letting love go is not
Five. Love will sometimes be too much.
It will let y
Lucidity.The dreams leave
me with scars I can't see,
bruises that don't show,
wounds that can't heal.
I'm carrying ghosts around
in sentences and sleep.
Disabused.To tell the truth
is to tear my tongue from its
root and spill blood
into a glass so you can
your mouth tasting
all I'd ever tasted in
before there were
roses on the benchtops and
kisses stolen between kisses
given and a hand on my hand
saying more in its touch than
you ever could with your words.
-- I'd learnt that love
isn't swallowing fists and blood between
things I learned at 11 am while I was half-asleepi
I’m spending most of my time
not crying, and I’m sorry,
but I don’t think I’ll ever love anyone
as much as aspirin, or lullabies,
or the cheap wine sold for two dollars a bottle,
or overly-apologetic letters bending over backwards
to make a point of themselves, or the pink petals
blooming on my wrists like flesh and blood miracles,
or the songs named after women
things may not change,
but you will have to.
I am most alone
surrounded by people
and the buzzing in my head of words
that should have lost their meaning
back when I discovered
they never meant anything
Dedications are only relevant
to people who appreciate shitty poetry,
or you. Insanity is writing the same thing
over and over and expecting it not
to sound clichéd.
and as much as anyone will swear otherwise,
I am a statistic. A number, an example,
a case study in the manipulation of
narcissism and moving on
denial and uglier aftermathi drink to you, raising my glass and
choking down the things you left,
ignoring my gag reflex and waiting
on the buzzing in my head, white cotton
lullabies for the weak of heart.
it kills me that we are just a
collection of vignettes, that soon
i might see your blossom fingers
and bleeding sunset smile but
only as a memory gone static with neglect;
this summer, i became a rebel. a
martyr in a child’s game, a vagrant
with boxes of dead poetry to call
a home, and when i asked you to want me,
it’s only so you’d take the sanity and consciousness
with you when you left. i miss
the days when personality disorders
were not graceful.
do you even remember taking me to the moon?
you were so fucking tripped out on acid
and weed and love and other drugs
that you thought we were a portrait.
midnight blues and sober grays
breaking even for a story,
but every planet we landed on
was already dead.
and trust me, i know you wish life was
a one night stand, because you
recoveringi am forever rewriting myself
with strokes of ink
running dry within the pen,
with pencils shrunken
so small that the point
i coloured myself with shades
of black and blue,
begging for the shadows
of my bones to come forth
and tell everyone
the things i can never remember
i swam in coral reefs
til my arms were marred
and my wrists tattered
because the silence beneath the water
was too much to hear.
today i am painting myself
in roses and peaches,
white teeth and red lips
because smiling and marker
speak so much louder
than the things i've tried
and shout with no pause
today i am choosing
to swallow health
and spit my words
so that finally
i can be heard
the memory in my jaw
that make my smile
Hunger PainsIt begins with a bang.
I forget to eat for a few months and
I drown in cheap ideas with pretty names,
the ones they fill books and barren wrists
and stormy heads with, and soon,
moonlight shines from inside
my ribs and I am a lighthouse.
Thank you for the things you gave me,
intrinsically, a knowledge of
how to properly wear
myself. Thank you
for not fixing me.
I used to write about the color
of your voice, always blue-- the sky
before I fell asleep and the morning
dragging me back; I wonder
that you could’ve loved me better
if you explained who the
Something was that shared your bed
at night, or why insincere words
were your favorite.
My poems still cling to my skin
even when I sleep. even when
I wake, an anchor. even when
I boil myself alive and unfold
like a pallid lily inside your
and after enough time,
I forget to say goodbye.
I pick the scabs on my hips,
kiss the sorry out of your smile,
and breathe like this air
isn’t already a million years old.
flatsound thinking.i remember that once i was about to have a panic attack
and i could feel it building up like storm clouds or a rising tide
and i thought of you, and i imagined the way you smiled
when we woke up next to each other on some guys floor in october of 08
and it just went away. like it faded to the point where i could breathe normally.
i tried it again the other day.
and i swear i almost died from suffocation.
confessionalthey say sad girls change their hair color
and forgive their monsters.
i change my morals
and become one.
moonsongthe crescent moons bitten into my palms
break apart the hard worn lines written
there. a fortune teller told me
it was just a matter of time before my
universe crashed in on itself
and my stars ripped themselves apart.
your gray-sky-eyes swallowed me whole
and i fell down, down, down
while your piano key fingers played
my melody one last time.
i would never number the poems
i wrote about myself because that
would be like ticking off the days
until my breakdown;
i was a moth, unapologetically throwing myself
at any gleam of hope; wasting my wings
on industrial promises
colors always felt much more
appropriate for the purple boiling
beneath my heart and the pallid
purposelessness of my head,
but i was born into a colorless world--
no one sees me behind the metallic scars
of my skin and iron grating of my voice against
the grain; no one sees me as more than
gray regret or monochrome mistakes,
no one sees me but
all i ever wanted was for a
fallen god with feathered heels
to believe in me: to pray upon
the monuments i built for
broken dreams and to baptize me
in his tainted tears,
i just want him to be real. more
than anything, i want to be real, i want
to be more than an imaginary friend
to various mental limitations; i want
to trade my liquid skin [evaporating]
for a chance to be
i am a moth and you are the lighthouse
finding yourself isn't as easy as
going and looking at
yourself in a mirror, chanting over
"i am pretty,
i am pretty,
i am okay,
we will be okay."
sometimes it's blood and burn marks and
ashes upon ashes and
ripping blisters and bony
sometimes finding yourself
is like reading a book
like a map.
you forget where you are on the
roads and you have to
but the scar on your thigh that runs
from your hip to your
inner knee is not the highway,
and your knife, not the car.
finding yourself is like
arguing with yourself and telling yourself
that you are fucking
finding yourself is not akin to
being an adult.
i should know.
i'm stuck in between two dead beat
towns, one with a sign to
who i am, and the
other who i want to be, and
no matter how hard i grip the
steering wheel, i can't
manage to find a way
five hour energyi suppose
last week was only an aftershock
of the earthquake you were before.
this place used to vibrate
with metal strings and melodic,
testimonies to life,
emitting coffee-scented moods
and the burn of it too.
i had memorized the
sounds of silence,
i couldn't help but relish it.
no longer had i known
the sounds of folk
and scent of mocha-
you became nothing more
than an echo of the laughter
i so desperately needed to hear again.
then the echoes got louder,
bouncing ferociously off the walls
to be made manifest
i walked into your room
expecting exactly what i found-
an unmade bed,
and an empty beer
(the one that you insisted you needed
just days ago).
i pressed my nose
into the pillow
for incense and cologne and starbucks
to penetrate my mind
and thinking fervently
i already know
what a clean sheet smells like."
how strong an aftershock can be,
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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