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It makes me ill3rd grade, 4th grade:
A sickening drop in my stomach,
My head is in the lowest gear.
I know that they live such different lives,
And yet we are connected by blood.
I can hear my pulse stop from the beat of their music,
I can feel my abdomen shrink into my spine as they yell at their mother,
I can see my hands shake even though we have the same blue eyes and same round cheeks.
I am terrified of their reality.
8th grade, 9th grade:
Strangers produce this physiological change in me:
Those with dark eyes, dark hair-
Those who are obviously different from me.
I am scared of realities I know aren't mine.
12th grade, 13th grade:
The reality I came to love is what frightens me the most.
The 4th grader within me is trembling in my palms,
She is crying in my ears,
Trying to cover up the sounds of your hiccups,
Trying to cover up the feeling of your tremors in my arms.
I trust you with my life,
But I don't trust you with your own.
I am frightened of a reality that I cannot protect.
14th grade, 15
'you can tell me anything, you know that'what i have to say is
"i'm feeling pretty sad right now"
but it can be illegal to let
negativity sprout in the crevices
of support structures and tear ducts.
what i want to tell you is
"i miss what i left behind with him"
but it is not well looked upon
to tell of misfortunes with old loves
to those who could be new.
what i wish i could say is
"the healthier i get, the more i want
to go back in time"
but those words would fall upon
full hearts, heightened expectations,
and lost connections.
i set ablaze every bridge
i came across, and there is no way
to travel back now,
and there would be not a single soul
waiting there for me.
what i do say is
"my shoulders are burning today,
my back feels broken this evening,
my eyes are dull tonight"
because physical ailments
are tangible and have permission
to exist, but, indeed,
they are the easiest pains
to cause myself.
flaws in composure are flaws in armorrepetitive two- or three- word phrases
are the outer limit of my vocabulary
when all i can hear is
my pulse in my throat and
my hands and legs rattling
against the floorboards.
my back is spiraling into itself,
searching for my stomach, for my lungs,
searching for a reason for this
suffocating pain and imminent death.
my eyes can't settle on any single object,
because everything is fragile
and i'm afraid to watch anything break-
maybe it's because i watched you break,
i watched my words break your trust,
i watched my actions wreck your beliefs.
a few minutes later, when the attack passes
and i'm alone on my bedroom floor,
i detach my arms from around my knees,
shove myself up with whatever strength i can muster,
and scrub yesterday's makeup
from the bags under my eyes.
someday i'll look back on this
and i'll see that i was a warrior.
a warrior with holes in my armor.
a paladin without a proper breastplate,
lacking the internal systems
that offer refuge during something as simple
as a p
looking for danger at 3 amcracking you open,
right there on the street,
would give me the satisfaction
that i've never asked for.
you offered me your wrist for me
for weeks, for months, for years,
wishing i'd hurt you just so your tears
could be "justified".
don't you know?
you didn't get the memo?
none of us have the justification
that we feel gives us permission
to destroy or be destroyed.
we're all wandering the alleys at night
that someone will stab us in the gut,
just because we wouldn't flinch
and wouldn't give up our wallet.
kidalmost every damn day
i halt words that are about to spill from my throat,
i hiccup over sentences that i can't bear to speak.
three letter words can serve as a trigger
that launches a full fledged attack on my nerves,
which in turn launches me out into the street.
and every time my heel hits the pavement
all i can hear is "get out. get out. get out."
all i know is that i need to get out.
and i need to get out fast.
but almost every damn day
i spit out terms of endearment
for all of those who
i hold so dangerously high.
i almost collapse under their weight
when that short, seemingly insignificant word
almost sneaks past my lips.
the soles of my sneakers
can barely hold me aloft
when i run with such panicked purpose,
hearing nothing but
"how could i almost- how could i almost-
how could i almost say-"
and knowing that
indeed, i almost said it.
and almost every damn day
i lash out at the memories
that i've cut into jigsaw pieces,
trying to throttle the
panic-prone girl i've grown from
it's true - i'm leaving youconvincing a child that someone is now
from their life is a matter of
saying goodbye, wiping up tears,
and never seeing a trace of them
as an eighteen year old,
i would have appreciated the child's version
of this ritual of persuasion.
instead, i got two-month intervals of
delay and lingering,
times of remaining identical
to the stale soul i had become.
i could count the intervals
exactly to the day -
two months was the longest
anyone could go before shattering
into insignificant shards.
as a twenty year old,
i have become skeptical
of the idea that someone could
leave at all.
i might not speak to them,
i might not see them,
i might not notice things around me
that used to define my vision of them,
but the absence of habits
gives absolutely no validity
to the claim that they are
forever gone from my world.
i have spent four point zero two percent
of my life with dulled senses.
for ten months
my vision was blurry,
my hearing was garbled,
my sense of smell was pract
you wonder how you ended up herewhat am i doing to myself?
that surge of panic
a heart-stuttering, mouth-opening, clenching-of-the-jaw
the realization that my hands are to blame
for the strength of my bones
for the confidence in my eyes
for the smile that comes so naturally now-
how do i take this back?
how could i be such a stranger to myself
how could i let my dreams fall away
how could i pack it all into a single shoe box
how could i leave her behind,
after all she's done for me?
this line is much too thin to walk
and my bathophobia is making me stumble
one side of the fence houses
fruit, sweat, strength, genuine laughter, newness of life
and enough self-worth to inspire
the other contains
blood, tears, collapse and destruction, a lack of sleep
and enough regret to drown everyone i've ever loved
and yet, in my eyes, it is comfort
how do i choose between health and safety?
why am i making myself destroy one life to start an
you will never feel quite cleanempty bottle resembles empty heart
and empty head,
and empty bed
every song is a punch to the gut
reminding her that she must
be better, be stronger, be confident
and yet relapse is on the road
to the imaginary land of recovery
she develops an intense relationship
with her lonesome bed
blanets reach out to keep her pinned
-with tear-stained cheeks, chewed up nails,
swollen shoulder blades
her mattress is desperate for the kisses and sighs
she gives it night after night
somewhere that i despisei.
every meal is an unavoidable family feast
meat, bread, cheese, dessert
regret is building inside of me-
inside my stomach, my thighs, my cheeks.
clouds, freezing wind, pouring rain
a sad excuse for summer
it leaves me just as down
as i was a year ago today.
pressured to look busy, to be busy
to go places without transportation
to see people who are states away
to go outside in the lifeless sun.
privacy is sunday mornings and showers
watch what you say, what you show
be prepared to defend a tear or fist
don't you break down. not here.
breakdowns aren't accepted at home.
The Black CatNew York in July can at times be rightly described as a hell hole, the heat so oppressive that your utility bills have to soar or you bake even at night. In the old days, the trade in ice blocks to cool the air was immense, but these days air conditioning has taken that place.
Even with that, however, some people prefer to sleep with the window open, and on this particular July night Cissy Barker had the window of her apartment open and the air conditioning going full blast. Even with that, however, she slept restlessly, as she kicked the covers off and lay in her grey silk top and shorts.
She mumbled something in her sleep, reflecting the dreams she was having – unaware of the shadow that passed her window, or the rustle of the curtains as they were moved to the side and a figure came in.
The woman wore a black leather jacket zipped up to her neck, tight black leggings and mid-length suede boots. Soft leather gloves covered her hand, and a stocking was pulled
Artemis The roar of the engine stirred the neighborhood from its quiet night. A few curtains rose and some dogs barked as a loud motorbike came to a stop at the corner of the street under a yellow streetlamp. Thick men’s leather boots padded for small feet played their deep song on the concrete. A hoodie hid under a large biker jacket. The hood covered a petite, exotic face.
Artemis strolled down the street, more curtains rose and a few curious stares followed her as she continued her way, glancing briefly between the numbers on the scattered mailboxes, quietly counting them out loud.
"35, 36, 37… Ah, there we go, 38."
A small smile crossed her lip as she eyed the house she came to. The place was dark, unlike the rest of the houses around. It looked dead, dark and rather old. She examined the windows and both sides of the house for an entry point. Nothing to climb, and the humidity made sure no one would leave a window
Missing PersonsI live in a world of fear.
I am not the only one who is afraid; no, every person here fears the night, if not for themselves then for someone they love. Mothers fear for their children, husbands for their wives, children for their sisters and brothers. No one fears for their friends; no one has friends anymore. No one dares.
It wasn’t always this way. I remember days before the fear, before the world was so paralyzed with its own terror that it forgot how to live. I remember walking through a park after sunset just for the pleasure of it. I remember being late for an appointment without anyone beginning to plan my Memorial. I remember life before people began to disappear.
It started slowly, coming on so gradually that it’s hard to say when it became normal for people to vanish on their way to the grocery store, or while walking the dog. Suddenly it was completely ordinary to see houses fall derelict, their owners mysteriously vanished somewhere beyond our reach.
Artyom (1)The crack of metal on wood split the heavy silence of midday as Artyom’s fist pounded the door, protected by a half-inch of brass. He grunted and punched the door again, splintering the wood. He punched one more time, gritting his teeth with the effort, and the door gave way, sliding an inch or two forward and opening a gap wide enough to push his arm into. The first thing the Russian did, however, was pull the combat knife off of his hand, flip the safety off of the G3 he was carrying, and scan the wasteland of a neighborhood behind him. Sharp, blue-grey eyes picked out details from behind the red visor of his pre-war helmet: the dust blowing through the skeletons of houses, the click of the Geiger counter attached to his belt, the massive, limping tracks of some poor bastard, too mutated to even call natural, let alone human, who’d passed though maybe a week ago. Artyom sighed, still alert but at least no longer uneasy. He turned back to the library and pushed his hand in
all of itall i know is that my body is trembling from how angry i am, and i refuse to
cry. my body is bruising, and i love it. my fists are twitching with how
much i want to punch you in the face. i want blood. i want blood on my
all you do is lie to me. it doesn't matter if it's something important or
something insignificant, you lie regardless. you lie about yourself, you lie
about me, you lie about others. you're just a liar.
all people do is take advantage of me. you did, he did. everybody does. you
say you love me, you try to keep me from falling to pieces. all you're really
doing is fucking me and holding me in your tight grip so that i can't be loved
by anyone else. i'm sick of this.
all i've been thinking for the past year is that i need to take a break,
figure my life out. my life will never be figured out, and any time i think
i've got i
SweepAs soon as he stepped into the open field, he slung the minesweeper from his shoulder and pointed its nose to the ground. It was old, worn and heavy, and old and rough, calloused and breaking, and old. The metal between his hands was cold and chilled his fingers. If he was not careful he could step on the very mines he was trying to find. They would have to pick up the pieces of his body and to send the tags home where his wife would cry and hold his son and daughter close with nothing to show them of their father but a piece of metal engraved with "Ajeet Singh".
One sweep, than another.
This war had taught him to never trust open spaces. Open spaces were where the mines were planted, where Prets lay in wait. France was green and damp just like the uniform he wore. It had been days since he was separated from his unit, and now the Allies were breathing on his neck, searching for POW’s, searching for the enemy of which he was one. &
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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