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Heat AdvisoryWe are an air-mass thunderstorm at the height
of an Indian summer -- a cloudburst colliding
into a cyclone, raising the temperature of any
who wander through our sweaty inversion.
I soar above the earth buoyed on your thermals,
straight into a clap of thunder conceived by
lightning fever. A roiling heatwave travels
across our connection, evaporating the atmosphere
surrounding the eye of our storm. Your humid
breath wisps over the thermodynamics of my skin,
pushing cumulonimbus up the drought in my spine.
Muggy kisses trail down my body like volcanic ash,
a haze blurring the lines between our hurricanes.
And as the barometer spikes, my heartbeat quickens;
I am sucked into the vortex of your tropical storm.
a monster's romanticsI got a nervous habit and I drink too much.
Can you tell I haven’t slept very well since the last time
that we spoke? “We’re killing time just a little bit faster.”
The words come with a new kind of sadness.
If it looks like Armageddon’s coming down today,
please don’t tell me that I’m dreaming; I can’t tell
if he’s real or a made-up version of her again. And
the hardest part of living is just taking breaths to stay.
breakingtime ticks on and you change
to survive, but survival of the fittest
always seemed a bit skewed
in the history books
of whoever won this war.
you're a chance to show them
they were wrong;
pull the trigger one last time
and let them know
who you're going to be.
if they smother you, shine
brighter than the fragments
they're made of -- don't
let them make you a ghost
in the machine that spins away
in forgotten dimensions
until it rusts. the craters of the moon
will always call for you,
changing the tides endlessly
until your voice crackles through
the radio and shouts back,
"no one can break me!"
untitledThat guy thinks he's heartless;
I watch him as he buys coffee
and gives it to everybody he passes
on the street who looks sad, and
his lips curl into a smile because
he made a joke that gave someone a laugh.
He holds his mother's hand on top
of hospital sheets, pressing the button
to pump morphine into her system
before he signals a nurse. Tears cascade
down his face when he watches
his mother take her last breath.
And his lips curl into a sneer as he walks
past a cloud of lung choking smoke,
thinking of the fume filled air
his mother suffocated herself in.
He thinks he's heartless, but
his heart is bigger than anyone's.
InfatuatedI am infatuated with a boy
because his smile is too big for his face
and it feels like the only thing that’s real,
because his eye color is cerulean
and that’s been my favorite crayon
ever since my grandmother
bought me that set of sixty four,
because he’s so damn beautiful
even though boys aren’t meant to be,
because his hands are big enough
to hold the whole world
and he doesn’t even know
what he wants in them yet.
I wish I could find the courage to crack
my rib cage open for him
and point out all of the ways
that he managed to sneak into my heart
so nothing is misunderstood
or misinterpreted anymore,
but I can’t even speak to him
because my tongue ties itself
into pretty ribbon bows
because he is a gorgeous jigsaw
and I don’t understand him at all,
even after a million glances.
So I’m dissecting every word he says,
every glance in my direction,
and every casual brush of skin
to try and find subliminal messages
even if there aren’
To the boy who broke my heartWe only communicate by letters,
stamps stuck down with kisses,
delivered by cupid (or by royal mail)
I have fallen in love with the curves of
your name, stroking your white paper skin
scrawling love notes in the folds of your
collarbone, the folds of the envelope,
pressing my hands into your back
with every word spilling
from my mouth to your eyes;
in the silence we say so much,
separated at opposite ends of the sky
we entangle our hands, braid our fingers like plaits
And your scribbles sigh from my pinboard
and my cursive whispers from your desk
reading between the lines, I can hear our heartbeats
echo, our steps falling in sync
I love it when you wear those red blue and white stripes,
when the airmail stamps are not smudged,
when the queen smiles at me
as if she knows what you’ve written, as if she is our matchmaker
and you sign off with an x and I give you three in reply -
Maybe I gave too much,
packed my future in tissue paper and a parcel,
packed my life into two beaten suit
three ways to fall aparti.
we were seventeen
when you promised me that
this tiny dustbowl of
a southern town was not going to be
everything my life was made of.
it wasn't hard to believe
because the maps you'd spread across
your ceiling never lied (since you claimed
it was easier to dream when they
were stuck above you
in the night).
i remember the lines you'd drawn
in a felt pen, red because it seemed important,
seemed louder than the rest, and
i remember how you
would trace the roads with your eyes until you
fell asleep. you had a knack for
memorizing every escape route, and when i asked why
you answered that it was because one day you
would have to run.
when i asked if i could fly away with you
you said yes, and that night i dreamt
of runaways and falling stars. i never was sure
if they were supposed to mean something bigger than us.
sometimes when i lie awake at night
i wonder now how far we might
have gotten if we ever left, if we had jumped into
your old impala and left the road behind us -
You Will Meet Me In The DarkSometimes there is a shift in a person
Someone who was once afraid of shadows
Now suddenly takes comfort in them
A person that feared the creepings of the dark
And the monsters that which lay there
Now takes pride in creeping right alongside them
He that used to shiver and shake at that cold feeling
Now turns to face the terror there
Grinning back with blood stained teeth
There are things that change a person
From sweet and naive and clueless
To hard, uncaring, and unafraid
Those that once walked with softness and smiles
Now striding with certainty and roughness
A person stripped raw of innocence
Many such a person exist in this world
If you care enough to look for them
These are the ones that survive
For they know the horrors of this system
And they have seen the bloodthirsty monsters
They are not the ones residing in the darkness
No the real monsters
The ones you should fear and cower from
Are the ones that shroud themselves in light
The ones with white wings and compassion as their
god never meant for us to be anything1. patrick
i expected wonders
from a boy with a tongue
like a viper and a small,
spare room in a strange house.
i did not get them.
i tasted my first cigarette
on your lips.
and couldn't wash the taste
out for weeks.
i never smoked again.
we were a divine mistake,
right down to the way
your hands skittered
over my flesh like deer.
read the fury on my face
as i left.
a dark room
and misplaced pillows
caught my disinterest
and muffled it
while you pulled off your shirt.
it never went as far as you had hoped.
you taught me
satin sheets hold.
i taught you
how to feel falsely oppressed.
you taught me how to appreciate
the shape of kind hands
and quiet lips
in a rowdy school yard.
i forgot your name
within a year
and recall it with doubt.
my hips had not
swollen to accommodate a fetus.
your interest lay with
star*crossedi. when we first met
I was an owl-eyed dreamer,
surely, I was the moon;
lonely and surrounded by the
dark thick blanket
shivering in the arms of
an oxygen-deprived sky that
didn’t want me
I assumed that you,
the pretty Miami girl
with the loud, silent presence
were the sun; the half cracked
grin you gave me lit your eyes
and I felt warm, like I was
melting and I knew,
that around you,
I would be in danger
of falling from my numbing
velvet atmosphere, down
towards the flames that
curled around you
but the sun and the moon
will never have the slight
chance of gracing each other
because they are opposite
sides of the spectrum and I
couldn’t handle that so
ii. It took me so many
missed moments to
find out that I was
wrong, you are not the
sun, that I was not the
moon but that
you are the moon, I am the
sea, we aren't too different just
two different mysteries
because we are both
hidden in plain sight, from
others and within ourselves
iii. there is no hint of
Love Letter to ChopinNo matter the number of strings I pull,
the number of keys I crash and speakers
I blow and records I scratch,
I can’t quite chase the sound of the piano
as it echoed through the hall
to my ear pressed to the door.
Nocturne No. 20 will always be yours.
It will always be your untied shoelaces
and white-collar shirt between four stained walls
where the violinists and cellists tuned their instruments
to the key of increasing hysteria
and pre-concert jitters.
It will be your fingers practicing your piece
while the rickety bench croaked its own song
and your laugh at the way your feet tingled
in your shoes. It will be our calming breaths
waiting in the hallway for our name to be called.
It will be the way I tried not to breathe
too deeply as we huddled,
our eyes catching fragments of the cellists and violinists
through the crack in the door.
It will be the colour of the walls where I hid
and the taste of the water that washed away my tears
when I couldn’t take it,
hey newton, gravity's flawedi.
starting anew from the flutter
and the sputter of lungs.
a vacant sea filled with feathers
and tumultuous clatter,
ribs in a treacherous pattern
resembling exiting rungs.
i want to wrestle the angels,
your tendency is the ladder.
involved with full indiscretion,
trading lazy for lace.
unspool the curse of the long-
limbs in a languorous flexion
i like the stab of the ankles,
you need the curves intersected.
opting to cull my extents
with trans-dimensional vigor.
spent my dysphoric corrections
on reconnecting lax ends.
lips in a spurious accent
feign a passionate rigor.
i tie myself to the anchor,
you extricate and ascend.
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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