ShopDreamUp AI ArtDreamUp
Deviation Actions
Literature Text
skin taught hipbone to hipbone like the skin of a drum as my fingers play the keyboard of my ribs,
digging deep to pluck them like boomerangs from the corset of my chest. stomach like a cave whispering lies that echo in my bones.
there's a vortex in my middle
that i refuse to feed,
a blackhole that only grows.
(but it doesn't seem to know that i've forgotten how to be hungry).
the empty echos the ice in my heart and the empty in my head.
the countdown has begun.
(caged rabbit heart is dying slowly).
and i know you'll come again soon. you always do.
there is a dead songbird in my chest,
and its wings are clipped and laid to rest.
i know my place.
i know the way my body fits next to his like a corrupted equation. 2+2=8. but you and me will never equal a whole number.
this selfhate was hardwired into me at the age of 11 along with the memories of your searching hands presspresspressing into me like a prayer.
but there is nothing holy about your hands,
nothing sacred about my skin.
on nights when the sheets feel like his breath and the air is his breath on my cheek,
i beg of silver to not respect my skin
(so that the canvas of my bones can breathe though the
gills in my airtight skin ).
on nights when i can't forget the way my body turned traitor and when i can smell him on my clothes,
my fingers lift the edge of my shirt
(but this time i'm in control: General of this destructive force
as my sick army of one draws the lines in red ).
love is a spoiled bed. corrupted like the belt your trembling hands removed.
curdled milk;
the expiration date on my skin read 'not yet'
and my spine screamed 'not ever'
but you wouldn't allow your ears to hear anything over the white noise of need in your head.
somedays i can almost believe i can cut my way through the clouds to find a God who still cares.
thats why i spend nights with bruised knuckles fisting holes into the indifferent ceiling
and screaming with a red-raw throat and heaving chest.
the words in my chest are the still-born babies that my mother holds unknowingly.
the hurricane in my chest is the silence i hold on my tongue that binds our family together,
but the price is rising like gasoline
and i no longer know what the right thing is.
what if his hands become immigrants when the home country drifts away?
will i ever be able to look into the next girls coffin eyes and tell her the way
the words stuck in my throat like an arsenal of knives and
tell her the way i was never strong enough to break everything?
what if there is no next girl?
what if there is?
what if its my sister?
(howcoulditellthem?
howcould i not ?)
its almost been two months.
but everynight is like a suspension bride of frayed rope.
expecting the snap like a broken bone before the plunge.
(its killing me).
each week that drags past like a carcass,
the harder it is to kill the withered hope hiding in my ribcage.
because we both know the longer inbetween,
the worse it is when your selfcontrol fails like the berlin wall.
afterall,
somethings never change.
like the way i'll keep telling myself
that this time i'll be
strong enough
to push away the hands that seek to park on my traitor flesh and
run.
but the way my bones will fall to fill in all the traditional ports
and my mind will lock up
like the safe in my parents bedroom
and my heart will leave my chest vacant untill
i become the doll the lust in his bones needs.
afterall,
somethings never change.
digging deep to pluck them like boomerangs from the corset of my chest. stomach like a cave whispering lies that echo in my bones.
there's a vortex in my middle
that i refuse to feed,
a blackhole that only grows.
(but it doesn't seem to know that i've forgotten how to be hungry).
the empty echos the ice in my heart and the empty in my head.
the countdown has begun.
(caged rabbit heart is dying slowly).
and i know you'll come again soon. you always do.
there is a dead songbird in my chest,
and its wings are clipped and laid to rest.
i know my place.
i know the way my body fits next to his like a corrupted equation. 2+2=8. but you and me will never equal a whole number.
this selfhate was hardwired into me at the age of 11 along with the memories of your searching hands presspresspressing into me like a prayer.
but there is nothing holy about your hands,
nothing sacred about my skin.
on nights when the sheets feel like his breath and the air is his breath on my cheek,
i beg of silver to not respect my skin
(so that the canvas of my bones can breathe though the
gills in my airtight skin ).
on nights when i can't forget the way my body turned traitor and when i can smell him on my clothes,
my fingers lift the edge of my shirt
(but this time i'm in control: General of this destructive force
as my sick army of one draws the lines in red ).
love is a spoiled bed. corrupted like the belt your trembling hands removed.
curdled milk;
the expiration date on my skin read 'not yet'
and my spine screamed 'not ever'
but you wouldn't allow your ears to hear anything over the white noise of need in your head.
somedays i can almost believe i can cut my way through the clouds to find a God who still cares.
thats why i spend nights with bruised knuckles fisting holes into the indifferent ceiling
and screaming with a red-raw throat and heaving chest.
the words in my chest are the still-born babies that my mother holds unknowingly.
the hurricane in my chest is the silence i hold on my tongue that binds our family together,
but the price is rising like gasoline
and i no longer know what the right thing is.
what if his hands become immigrants when the home country drifts away?
will i ever be able to look into the next girls coffin eyes and tell her the way
the words stuck in my throat like an arsenal of knives and
tell her the way i was never strong enough to break everything?
what if there is no next girl?
what if there is?
what if its my sister?
(howcoulditellthem?
howcould i not ?)
its almost been two months.
but everynight is like a suspension bride of frayed rope.
expecting the snap like a broken bone before the plunge.
(its killing me).
each week that drags past like a carcass,
the harder it is to kill the withered hope hiding in my ribcage.
because we both know the longer inbetween,
the worse it is when your selfcontrol fails like the berlin wall.
afterall,
somethings never change.
like the way i'll keep telling myself
that this time i'll be
strong enough
to push away the hands that seek to park on my traitor flesh and
run.
but the way my bones will fall to fill in all the traditional ports
and my mind will lock up
like the safe in my parents bedroom
and my heart will leave my chest vacant untill
i become the doll the lust in his bones needs.
afterall,
somethings never change.
Literature
biopsy
put me under, cover my face, stuff my lungs with your chemical lies.
if they were to take me apart,
slice open my chest,
peel back the skin keeping me whole,
they would find:
a. one heart, slowly ticking.
(they would not find anything,
but they would have to say they did.
after all, girls can't live without a heart.
they forget that i'm not the first:
a score of girls walking even though
they should have faded long ago.)
b. each rib curved so perfectly,
a shield around my lungs.
(a cage, keeping my breath from bursting
out of my skin. know that this is just me,
held together by nature,
unable to lose control of myself.)
c.
Literature
if you're an ocean, then i'm drowning.
You are a calculated mistake –
something that I've known is wrong from the very start. And I wake up next to you every morning lately, praying that your split lips don't sink me – even though I know it's too late.
You're already taking me under, because, baby –
you're heavy like hurricane. Like a thousand drops of rain pounding down on my shoulder blades. You're seeping into my skin and into my bloodstream. It's only a matter of time until you spread to my heart.
It's too late. I'm already drowning in you.
It's too late, but god, I cannot love you.
You're like the last boy I kissed –
which means I should already b
Literature
Intimacy
I asked to be slapped—
and your palm met my cheek
with constraint, cupped to lessen
the ensuing redness, the responsive tears
that welled but only in my left eye.
There are things like tealights
and dinners after midnight that we agree
to be romantic: that we consume
through antique filters, lace
between our fingers, but your palms
sweat when we hold hands
and I've never liked skin webbing,
nor the catch of calluses—
So, I propose to rewrite
a definition: mostly for my sake,
but also for the sakes of others
who have found themselves wondering
if they might be a-something
because they don't like to be touched
softly on the sk
Suggested Collections
Featured in Groups
i'm learning to write about all thie things i should never write about. of the things that hurt the worst and scare me the deepest.
airing the dirty laudry like this is pathetic,
but i can't help but feel like its a small victory too.
like breaking another link in my chain of silence.
i'm terrified to face the coming weeks before i can finally leave this hell behind.
(because for one of them, it'll be just me and him in the house alone.
hell.
pleasepleaseplease go.)
whatever.
time to stuff feeling back in that glass jar.
i feel too much.
airing the dirty laudry like this is pathetic,
but i can't help but feel like its a small victory too.
like breaking another link in my chain of silence.
i'm terrified to face the coming weeks before i can finally leave this hell behind.
(because for one of them, it'll be just me and him in the house alone.
hell.
pleasepleaseplease go.)
whatever.
time to stuff feeling back in that glass jar.
i feel too much.
© 2012 - 2024 arabesque-o
Comments15
Join the community to add your comment. Already a deviant? Log In
You have been featured here: [link]
Thank you for writing so beautifully and make sure to check out the other people's work!
Thank you for writing so beautifully and make sure to check out the other people's work!