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Deviant for 9 Years
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Literature
'Are you asleep?'
1. Those other boys took
all the good feelings
I used to get when
their hands felt new
and exciting
on my skin.
They never kissed me first.
Under blankets on the floor,
hungover in a single guest bed,
or so, so drunk,
they reach around me, press themselves
into my back, roaming hands,
quiet mouths.
I thought I wanted something
from them
before I realized
they were robbing me.
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Mature content
I'm making this about me :iconclamshellheart:ClamShellHeart 3 0
Literature
fog and dust and dirt
How many of my friends killed themselves before we even met
throwing their aching souls against cliffs of stones so smooth even
the roots of the trees couldn't hold on,
breaking their nails dragging their fingers
through the fog and dust and the dirt that they brought down after them
that would bury them
at the bottom.
I fell to my knees like an ugly movie,
crumpled to the ground because my bones were
only erect with tensely stretched skin,
and the wind had suddenly stopped.
On my mattress I spread my arms and legs
and offered the smooth surface of pain to whatever had taken Kyle
but it didn’t want a body so unbroken
so I broke myself
as though that would affect change.
The deep gashes he left behind
bore light through the people who felt his absence,
a terrible light so bright it hurt to look at
or bare.
I tattooed it on my skin,
an indication of the precious pieces
I carry in myself,
though it doesn’t have his eyes to see the mountains and lakes,
or his heart to skip a be
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Literature
Thread (yarn)
Tall, tall grass,
a sliding glass window,
seven lanes of traffic,
and the opening door of a bus:
all the things I walk through,
you might see through,
if you would turn to look down
at me eight floors below.
When that door closes it’s
behind and beyond me,
at least to you.
But it might as well be between us,
for all the paths it seals as it
inches down the boulevard
towards the city.
If there was ever a heartstring between us
do all the closing doors wear it down?
Cotton fraying around polyester,
stretching as you drive west,
I tumble east,
bent around buildings and
stopped at red lights.
Returning again, the thing between us is
ragged, hyperextended,
unable to unstretch.
I look down at the bus stop through the window.
I don’t know where you look.
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Literature
Wax and Water
Wax and water will never together
Because they can't both bare the weather,
Water at lower and higher degrees
Will only compel wax to freeze.
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Literature
Kyle 2
i’ve been to Lakeview without Kyle, while he was still alive.
    he used to dig these huge, person-sized holes in the sand, we took
    pictures with 6, 7, 8 of us inside and smiling in bathing suits and
    covered in sand.
was he still there, filled in at the waterline below the beach then?
is he there, now that’s he’s gone? in the threads that bodies trail
like airplanes
as they move through time
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Literature
Out of my Control
Imperfect panes of window glass
and weathered wooden beams
compose this body.
Long after the novel first snow, long after
the fresh softness has been tamped down and dirtied,
the elder ice crusted winds fly at the face
of every tree and building, every sheet stretched over
a bone, until only the sturdiest core of the living
is left standing, or hidden away.
I hide
in this body,
porous lumber breathing
in and then out as the sun rises and sets,
the glass tense against each contraction, breaking
bleary clouded sunlight into faltering streams.
Defective birdhouse, no nests or sleeping warm bodies,
only a gaping mouth for entrance
and empty, translucent rooms.
I stare around as the snowy landscape stretches,
the expansion of space evident
by how far away everything seems to be.
In the distance someone throws a rock,
I can’t see, but I hear the damage,
stirring in mourning I can only wonder
who is next, am i next, who is next
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Literature
In my mom's hat
When I was a kid I would walk home from school
every day
starting from kindergarten and up until
I got my license the last week of senior year
and drove my dad’s truck.
Between McKinley Elementary and my house
I had the sidewalk memorized, each crack
familiar, each new broken piece
noticed. In the sun I went in sandals,
in snow, boots, in storms sometimes
I’d remember my umbrella.
When it flurried and the wind blew
my mom sent me in snow pants, a scarf,
boots, mittens,
a puffy winter coat, and a tan knit hat
(She made it when she was young)
that everybody recognized me by.
I took pleasure in my warmth
when it was cold outside.
Maybe that’s where I'm hiding.
A spot of warmth in
my mom’s hat
wandering the snow storm in my head, the flurries
in my lungs.
I know the way better than my own hands,
I am safe and well;
I just need to find myself
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Literature
reach
If nothing ever completely touches how does anything move?
It’s all electric, magnetic poles pushing;
the worker lays the concrete before
disappearing, leaving behind a skeleton of effort
unnoticed and perpetual,
the arm: a door, dependent on its hinges
hovering above the threshold, its corner
thoughtless of the weight it doesn't feel.
Everything’s hidden in radio waves and
tucked into sewers, buried in bodies of water,
lost in the potential that moves electrons in the brain,
invisible people acting behind the safety of headlights and tinted windows,
a leaf unseen in a canopy,
grains of sand hidden on a beach;
I bury a spot in me that’s supposed to be who I am
in knowledge, in music, in words, food, activism, sleep, phrases on repeat,
but it might just be what I'm afraid of,
it might be the same as what’s in everybody, a seed
in different dirt.
It might be empty.
My body is a mind game,
whole and healthy from one angle,
2-dimensional and disjointed and
completel
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Literature
Kyle
There’s something in my hands making my fingers ache,
Something in my back that won’t let it sit up straight,
My stomach is recoiling, maybe something I ate,
Some of this hurt seem like my fault and now I’ve stained the slate,
I’m so sorry that this happened,
But I’m glad that you’re ok,
I hope that you can find something to get you through the day,
There’s something in my smile, that is painful, automatic,
Something in my brain stopping thoughts with strings of static,
My brain wants to sleep, but my racing heart won’t have it,
I’m stretching with my fingertips towards words lost in the attic,
I’m sorry for the suicide,
I’m glad that we’re together,
I hope that the fire can stay burning through this weather,
There’s something in the moments that keep on slipping by,
Something I’m forgetting or I’m losing to the night,
It’s incredibly important but I can’t seem to get through,
But that
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Literature
brothers
i.
I share my mother
with brothers, with brothers I share fathers
who are not mine
and siblings I’ve never met.
ii.
I share my friends with
their pasts, with an overdose, with
self mutilation, a bathtub of bloody water,
and all the things they’ve never told me.
I wonder what I was doing when
they left, what I was doing when a brother
lit his house
and tried to crawl down it’s smokey throat.
iii.
One of my brothers didn’t know me, almost
never knew me,
and I don’t know him except
his mom and my mom
talk to us with the same mouth.
She has a heart that cries
for the animals in the zoo, for a bird I hit
driving home from my driving test, for every friend I have
with shitty parents and a bruised soul. She met
my burned brother once forty years ago
and again in time to learn
his favorite band is The Allman Brothers,
and in time for his suicide note.
iv.
Dear Joe,
you’re closer to our mom’s age
than mine, but we can learn to be-
Dear Joe,
I don’
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Literature
The Ballad of The Skeleton King's Custodian
The skeleton king has a fearful hall
Where many are challenged and many fall,
Men and women face his wrath
And leave behind a bloody bath.
There’s only one drain on the uneven floor,
In each tile valley, a small pond of gore.
The room must be cleansed of every pool,
And that, my friends, is what I do.
My squeegee’s on the leg of a broom,
I wear my Wellington’s over my shoes
And make my paces, to and fro,
Pushing tides of blood as I go.
It appears so peaceful, when I’m alone,
The rippling liquid across the stone,
The serous voice flowing down the drain,
Vibrant and naive of recent pain.
In terracotta beneath the streets,
It dilutes and mixes and runs toward the sea,
And then each soul is free from the land,
of the skeleton king and his devilish band.
I guess I’m thankful, it could be worse,
I could be the one sating that brutal thirst.
As well as I can I ignore the slaughter,
But, still, I wish it were water.
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Literature
To be a spider in its web
To be a spider in its web,
And stand upon wind’s flow and ebb,
Free from walls and worldly weight,
A nomad’s home’s a rich estate.
In any place I could embed,
The quiet woods, some stately stead;
To my own camp I would not wed!
It blown or burned, I’d shrug away,
To be a spider in its web.
To go where eager feet had led,
Meander on or onward sped,
Or if it strikes me I will wait,
And set up camp upon your gate,
Watch sunset’s colors from my bed,
To be a spider in its web.
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Literature
The Fire On The Hill
I am looking for the water my lover lies in,
Cold in the shadow of the evening,
He’s a stranger to me, still I search for him,
Where the animals oft are feeding.
He wades there to prove himself devout,
He wades there to prove he is brave,
He wades there all night without coming out,
At mercy of hard teeth, claws and chill waves.
His mother camps on yonder hill
Setting white fire to driftwood and breeze,
When the animals see, their hunger stills
And enchanted, they sink to their knees.
With hope in his heart, he bares the whole night
With his mother’s help, heedless of warning,
He crawls from the pond upon proving his might
To find a judge's charges upon him that morning.
If I am not there when he faces his charges
He will be beaten and cut and scorned,
I must show them he conquered the water
And his mother’s fire could not him warm.
He is a soldier strong and brave,
He proved it this night in the water,
His mother is cunning and him she saved,
And I would wed him and
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Literature
Whispers
The wind here whispers, ‘Are you eating enough?’ ‘Are you studying enough?’ ‘Are you busy tonight?’ ‘Are you angry?’.
The sky is gray; the trees are tall and mighty and wise, with canopies like wispy thunderstorms, and wood colored gently like sandstone and earth.
The trees are quiet and far, with many miles in between them. Beyond the trees is a great wall of fog.
I watch the ground instead of the trees, vaguely aware of my path, even when I’m trying to focus.
I watch the fields, too, the wheat browning and then mildewing in its time.
‘Are you okay?’ ‘Have you been sleeping?’ ‘How much water have you had today?’
In the distance, I think there is a city or a mountain; something great and huge and obscured in the fog, tall enough to be hidden in the clouds.
There are flat concrete posts with bold symbols I cannot read. There might have been a railroad here before.
“You are going
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Literature
growth
The hose water in the backyard smells like my childhood.
I’m watering a new poppy garden and the small milkweeds
that I planted for my dad while he was at work.
Mom’s not home either.
I haven’t been in this house alone
in over a year.
There’s no air conditioning.
The fans spin, keeping the
air swirling.
From the couch I can hear them,
and the birds, and the wind chimes
on the porch.
I’ve learned about silence since I left,
and I have a small unfinished list
of why people leave cities.
But here it’s quiet and the birdsongs
run together.
Before I leave I tell my dad, the milkweed
wilted after I transplanted them. If they don’t last I can
always give you
seeds to plant.
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RollingTomorrow Featured By Owner Jan 27, 2017   General Artist
Hello! :D

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Thank you for your fav :)
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Thank you so much for the fav! I really appreciate it <3
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Hello~! OwO
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