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(on a page torn from the back of my journal)
clogs my arteries.
slice my chest open
and cut my bleeding heart free:
hold it in your hands
for just a second.
i want to know
what it’s like
(on a page torn from my relapse food diary)
i cut you out
it didn’t bleed much
(on the outside).
(on lined paper with a coffee stain)
if you want to know why i stopped:
(on paper with the words carving their own pathways)
my stomach is tearing holes
and i need to tell you,
sometimes you make me believe
every word he said to hurt me.
my head is spinning,
i regret my trust in you.
i always do.
I spend most of the
day tucked like a
my covers –
the world is grey
I am sheltered
with my eyes
is tired like my
and my mind is sluggish
tarnished and dirty, but unbrokenyou gave me a ring once,
perfectly round and prettily silver: i slipped it on
just to find it was far too big for my skinny, knobbly fingers.
i lost it the day you punctured me for the first time.
and it turned up later, not long after i let
you know not again, not again.
when you broke your promise, i lost it again
and could not find it.
(recently, i realised
you were buried beneath so many hurts you barely
told me about and i was a girl with
a voice so broken neither of us could hear it
and no, neither of us have any excuse
because, well, i don't know about you, but i've
spent the last couple of years knee-deep
in pain and that won't change,
but you needed an escape and i'm afraid
i was there for the taking.
and now at least i understand
you are not a bad person
but a person who has done bad things
and there is a world of difference between
a week after i finally forgive you,
i find the ring, missing for two years no
disjointed (overdose and unreality)my rules are cracked
like the bathroom mirror: (was it my reflection?)
it slices my ribs into sections,
my voice into whispery segments.
there is a panic attack on the horizon,
hovering like the bleeding orange of sunrise,
and my kidneys are aching: (probably should've
gone to hospital.)
each day is a haze of distance.
i vaguely remember the undeniable comfort of trust.
brushing past is a nightmare i don't know
how to handle.
greasy words are a slime on my fingers,
my stomach is a mess, my thoughts are mincemeat
in a pan. i'm on a stop-start train
to unreality, where self-harm resides in
the most unfamiliar forms.
i don't quite remember why i'm supposed to
stay away from my rusty blade: (i'm sure there was
something to my reasoning.)
i'm running out of futures
with a two week deadl
wasting days to wandering with no direction1.
let me gouge lies into my skin,
i'm swallowing all these bitter scars, i don't need these
i guess i'm addicted to destroying myself.
inch by inch,
we'll trace silent pleas into my thighs,
it's okay, they won't know:
if i can find a different escape,
i'll take what i need because i can't help cutting the wings
off butterflies and chewing on the names of the people i've killed.
blankly, we'll turn my hand into a hedgehog
with an article laid black against white across a screen to light this scene
wondering if self harm is taking a turn for the worse with people turning to
stabbing things through their skin instead of simply slicing:
ten silver pins lined up in a row.
it hurts more to pull them out.
if i am stolen, let me know, won't you? i'm too confused by the
rip down the middle of my face.
can you see the cracks shattering across my cheeks,
leaking swollen wriggly worms and desperately salty tears:
i tasted them one time just to see if i could eat aw
honesty (never got me anywhere)1.
let's have a talk,
about something sickly sweet and mournfully
i wait for no one
in a bathroom where people keep knock-
ing on the door, asking how long i'll be in there.
i answer with a stumbling voice.
not long. but i sit, slumped-shouldered,
naked and cold, on the rim of the bathtub,
my feet press into the floor, toes curled up like
i can't move to clean up this horror story.
let someone find me,
i am too
tired (they never do, anymore.)
i can no longer fold my arms
without feeling like there is an intrusive
pillow of air between them and my torso.
i am made entirely of empty spaces.
not many people ask.
they'd rather avoid eye contact,
swallow suspect thoughts.
they used to
most got sick of
the blatantly obvious lies
and the rest
(your hands are curved brackets around my shoulders, we're okay here
with your coffee scent tangled up in my cheekbones -
i recognise you
in the most unfamiliar way -
let me know if your pulse is scattered across your freckles like
blood on the walls
if you can't breathe long enough
to allow your thoughts to seep through metal barriers: your hands
are forgiveness, i am laddered skin beneath soft eyes,
you smooth my imperfections and sharp angles -
i breathe you in.
in other circumstances,1. my eyes will not stop bleeding, slashed apart with images
too violent to describe: so far below, my ribs
are breaking apart and i breathe in too many slivers
of glass for my lungs to survive and
memory, leave me alone. present time, leave me alone.
project me so far in the future, i cannot discern
the blurry shape of that girl i will leave
2. the walls shake.
3. i can't decide if these are laughs or tears.
this is awfully familiar, i cannot remember.
i'm cradling too many hints in my wrinkled
hands, but then, i'm also
twisting flimsy razorblades with my
fingers: it's not like these wounds carve
deep enough anymore, the scars act like small protection.
this has been building for too long.
my screams are inching up my throat.
4. some non-existent memory
is haunting me: tell me what to think
tremblessurrounded in black
a headache erupts
behind my eyes.
it is so cold, so
icicles hang from
I can't focus on anything.
it blurs. splits into a
colours. I can't see past
the light show.
flashes across my face,
scabs and over
the lumps of bones and
veins and blisters
on my feet.
[I can't stop
dragonfly wingsi. There is an entire generation of humans who grew up learning how to be murderers,
learning how to wound creatures for an audience and a laugh, and oh
how they love to laugh, pigtailed executioners
and torturers of all that frail life
that could be contained in a quiet garden.
ii. They take spiders by their bellies and put them one each on two ends of a stick,
and they poke and prod and push until one decides to eat the other,
for there must be a duel, there must be a death, or there is no fun,
and the children will race off to find new things to hurt.
They take dragonflies by the wings and stick their jewel tails into electric sockets,
playing god in their pajamas, leaving peanut butter fingerprints
on the little pockets of heaven they find and fight over,
keeping the pretty pieces for their scrapbooks, like you could trap life
beneath scotch tape and label it between lines red-blue-red.
iii. Well maybe they know better, if you want to believe there's a muted brilliance
whitewashedmother refuses to drink the honey
she paints our rooms with, for
curtaining the timid female quarters of home
is just as frightening
as a monsoon-poor September.
the kind she weaves
with her own words seem far
sweeter than the jars they make
in the farm down
the tree-cut boulevard.
she hides stories in her collars, spilling
only when her honey jars are raised
her red-hot honesty
and our yellow, foolish,
the forlorn scent of industry
seeps into the cheap marble floor
and cracked bathroom tiles,
till it reaches father's nose where it
vaporizes in fear of being shunned.
father will paint the ceiling blue
because aloof girls make broken homes, sewn seam
by seam to a delusional perfection.
we are perfect, bent at the knees and spine
to the fetus we compare to
but the shoulders we always are.
we dare not tremble;
his reign, unquestionable,
to love with such thingsi've plucked the hours down by its scarlet petals
to figure out the ways to say i love you my dear
(held your heart in gentle hands
i will not break it)
with seeds perching into May lungs
among this flight of Frost flowers (blooming
where my heart once stayed so carefully sweet
flapping its wings to the still of butterfly's song
but(never do i
return its sing)
while i can say i love you (give me a map to the stars
i will show you)
by the ones twos threes by fours
the little dance of hows
crept upon me neath the moon's clear.
six steps to fixing youstep one
cry. scream. bang your fists against the walls
that keep you locked inside.
kick your feet in the air. tell your sister she's stupid
and wrong and that you've never loved her.
cry. scream. apologize via him to you.
let your tears catch on your lashes
until you can no longer see anything but your own
demise. taste the bitterness left in
your mouth from your own bitching and rot in it.
break a mug. break two. kick
the pieces around the kitchen floor and cry some more.
break a plate. break a cup. break a bowl.
break a finger because nothing can take away this
sort of pain. you are empty and yet
you are filled with so much anger.
break a razor and paint pictures across your skin.
you are okay, you tell them.
you break three days later and you lie
in bed, unable to move.
start picking up the pieces. clean up the mess
you've made and he's left.
use windex to polish off the dirt and
october poems and cigarette endsi. where are the metaphorical cigarettes when you need them, augustus?
ii. the poetry fell through the cracked riverbanks of my mind and slid off to elsewhere
iii. so still, i continued to breathe the lovely mindfulness, the unconventional endlessness of consciousness nothing’s.
let’s call them dreamers.
iv. the poetry written on my bones fading with all the sleep i drank (till the drunk of November mornings), the dreams melting off like the stars which ate away at my skin and left me bleeding—dying.
v. so, this is what writer’s block feels like
the eradication of sweeter thoughts and dreams
vi. (i think i finally understood why van houten drank so much.)
vii. “but i think the words you write are beautiful,” he says. “you’re beautiful.”
“i’m not beau—”
viii. still i write with an unsettled heart and
as blue as the eyes which fell upon them
the thoughts spilling out onto the pages it met
symptoms of red a materialist
inside of you
unknitting your sweater
& in your dream
you are a wolf eating
a flower in an orange field. the world
is ending. an unnamed girl stains you
as if she were tea
giving up to a
she writes a story: the unrequited
blurry visions of two visionaries
the modern day runawayher distant memories
gave way to dreams of
blurred birds and
of grass touching
bare skin of hesitant
soft-step foot paths through
insecurity creeps as hidden
snakes, only the rustling heard
only a forgotten gasp heard
by her sleeping partner
and in the morning
she retreats to the chill of
insulated rooms and the ac drip;
she falls asleep,
this time, to the
cubicle shrill phone ring
and she dreams
because we're too afraid to fly in daylightjust when i thought i was home,
the welcome mat
turned to tacks beneath my feet.
i apologized for the blood
that crept into the cracks and stained your porch.
this isn't the redwood i had in mind;
but i think it's kind of beautiful,
in the same way
a moth can't find its way to the stars
from inside the garage so it
flicks its maddened wings to make a
ting, ting, ting
on a dying lightbulb.
"abyssus abyssum invocat,"
i whisper to the winged-dreamer
as she makes her way across my cheek.
i know she hears it as she
eases past my softly, parted lips.
ex glande quercus,
her wings thump morse code
against the rawness of my throat
and i swallow to quiet her pain.
hush, now shush. be still, my dear;
trees do not talk or bleed.
you've given your wings to grow with me
and we will reach the heavens.
we will be greater than the oaks
as our forest of hair plants us among the stars;
then, we will be home.
hitched to the sky
with the veins of your wings
and stuck with the red of
snapshotsIt is unfair that you live
in the outskirts of every word uttered
during the heavier hours of the night,
while your gambrinous stomach cannot contain
the idea of me and all the ways I could show you
the decaying portions of promises
you made in the dark.
Don't look for me, I am only an effigy,
built from sleepless nights and the remnants of clothing
on your floor.
You made me into an inaniloquent mess;
your quiet laughter dances in the psithurism of forests,
your eyes are sink holes,
your lies are the lines on my face.
And I never realized how much easier
it's always been for you
to care less.
mood swingslay my skeleton to rest in a grave dug so long ago,
the sides are rough and caving in at parts,
i'll carve stories into the gravestone to give me better memories.
bitterness swirls in my sweat, please don't let me go,
i'm confused by such intense swinging:
from feet-punching-the-clouds high right down to
clutching hands and desperate tears and an urge to slice so overwhelming,
i shake with my inability.
pass me my flimsy little blades from your locked drawer,
i don't want to start reaching for the kitchen knives.
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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