literature

white noise.

Deviation Actions

arabesque-o's avatar
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Literature Text

sometimes i turn off the greasy yellow lights and run the water lava hot.
the quiet porcelain is an untouched coffin
familiar as the look in your eyes.
i can hear my heart beat in my ears
and i stare at the ceiling until it darkens and blurs at the edges.

my body is heavy as lead
i cannot remember the weight of movement.
sometimes the closest i can get is the suicide between each breath
and the apology unspoken on the inhale.

my skin is a ladder i keep climbing,
i can see through the rungs to the fat cells that weigh down my bones.
sometimes,
my hand becomes his when it creeps uninvited over the landscape of my body
and across the staircase of my ribs.
i can't erase the feeling of his body pressed like a book
over my flower.

my head is white noise that bleeds red,
but i'm tired of all the blood.
tired of all the memories like channels
i keep flicking past.

sometimes i wonder if i cut enough slack in my skin,
                              if it will finally rest easy over my bones.
sorry,
this is a little dark.
the last couple days have been good to me,
mostly.
© 2013 - 2024 arabesque-o
Comments20
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schriftsteller's avatar
I can relate to this a lot. I had my own struggles with cutting, and still do to a certain extent. I've stopped, but I know exactly how this feels. I'm sorry you are feeling this way but I'm glad you can write about it so beautifully.