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Therapists, I don't like their taste.i.
in 7th grade
i didn’t know depression
until she told me her name,
carving forever scratches
along my limbs like
little love notes on the bark
of a tree.
she stole my rings
and left me hollow.
i had only ever met anxiety
in passing, until one day
he handed me power and told me
to hurt someone else with it.
with an uncontrollable
quivering in my fingers,
he whispered, “ to survive,
you must learn quickly.”
as i shoved the bevel of a needle
into a strangers arm.
so, if a therapist
could talk away my scars
like iodine disinfects,
guide the ships
Please,don’t make me
fall in love with you,
I don’t want to remember you,
those Sunday morning
or the way your
lost boy eyes always,
always found a way
to find mine.
There are only so many times
I can allow you to slice
through my scar tissue
before I finally
lion boyi knew a boy with
eyes of gold & fire
in his footsteps.
he would roar to the
stars, declaring himself
as fearless as a king
& as regal as a lion.
he would announce
every night when leo
would coax the virgin
from her radiant
five times around the
sun & loyal fangs bared
to shield his kingdom,
my lion boy
dances with flames.
Confessionsthere’s a lot I never told you
one. I have a habit of lying, about
the simple things (like, yes I
forgot to remember and I swear by
soul mates and I’m in love
with your susurrus voice
and no, I’m really doing fine).
It was not an act of infidelity because
I believed it, too.
two. I’m infatuated with the concept
that I am more or less fictional, the
delusive beauty a million men will
dedicate novels to: I am fragile,
a dust angel sent to save the world
from commonalities and
three. Since I’m not allowed
to remember your name
I will commemorate you
in acts of escapism,
killing off the pieces
ExposureThe wind invites itself
from underneath my door,
it reaches under
it pulls open-
the leaves come in.
A bird hops over the
threshold and tilts its
head in quick, informative
The rains follow in
after the wind and
now I have to reason with
both the animals and the storm.
Those abandoned wooden barns
with one wall collapsed,
overgrown with vines and ferns.
The epitome of giving in.
I close the door
and all the windows,
leave it to the glass
to challenge the rain.
That little bird,
somewhere in here,
is searching for where
the wind has gone.
I imagine lying
on the hood of a car
beneath the desert su
i shouldn't write when i'm stonedpeople say you're
an asshole. but that's
okay because people say
i'm an asshole, too. maybe
that's one of the reasons
you love me and i love you.
but i think more than that,
i think the biggest reason
we're drawn to each other is
that neither of us fit anywhere.
we are both lonely. and we are sad.
but we don't care, and we love it.
we are good at being
alone. we are good at
being together. if i could,
i would paint a picture
of two souls tethered close
but sitting in separate rooms
and i would point to it. then you
would understand why we will
never come apart.
String TheoryThis is determination,
existential numbness in which
I drown from the paranoid spittle
of that dreary-eyed girl
lost in the mirror.
what would you do
if you saw me now, all grown in
to my predetermined curves and
the nihilistic fabrications knotted in my skin.
Maybe you still want to be
a brain surgeon. Maybe you still
weep when you’re happy and stop
when you’re lonely, drooping over like
the puppet no one remembered. Maybe
you still smoke like it’s a defiance, and love
like it’s a war; maybe time preserved you
like a corpse in formaldehyde, and maybe
you still think of me,
ExperimentalistShe always said she was
I knew otherwise.
This girl was raised to
Believe that the ability of
Counting the bones in your
Rib cage is beautiful.
Sixteen years old
With sand in her blood
And shoulder blades
As sharp as knives
As long as wings.
That day I knew
Her smiles were painful
And her laughs were just
Recorded in her throat
From so much practice
In a life that was once
A little punk rocker with a gift for singing songsGirl with the rock and roll smirk curled behind her teeth
Burning her insides for fun because there wasn’t much else to do
Aside from skipping stones across car parks
And sipping the last dregs of forbidden liquor
Behind broken trees to keep up the act of normality
Late at night when the moon is asleep
She lies on dismantled bed frames
Counting stars because lambs are too often sent to the slaughter
Lucky star heartbeats and posy veins
Hides broken windows behind her pupils
Ceiling lights tracing patterns on her cheekbones
As late night contemplation's lead back to Rome
Atlas limbs curled into her ribs
With a sense of obligation she
this habiti have this habit of thinking without thinking.
my mind will be walking down a road
while i am plugging away at the factory,
while i am putting groceries away.
if someone were to ask me what i was thinking,
i wouldn’t know what to say.
i would have to wait hours,
long after they’ve gone,
until my mind comes through the door,
tracking all manner of shit onto the floor,
and explains himself.
Love LettersWith their condescending ink
They wrote patterns of gold
Upon parchment leather paper
Within letters of words foretold
Perhaps with this envelope
And its rose tainted scent
I can find peace in myself
In the summer days spent
Where I took in the musky smell
Of your heart.
As I held it against my chest
I picked up a pen and began to start
Dear love, oh love
How I wish to see your lovely face
These days, these mornings are
What keep me hoping in sovereign grace...
Sea sonnet for the girl with ocean eyesShe was southern Californian storms
On a good day
When the skies nursed the shoreline like a wound
And the rain tasted like two scoops of mint chip ice cream
She held the nebula in her palms
And poured it out onto the sidewalk
So that the gutters would have something
To talk about at night
She swallowed the ocean
And held it in her eyes
Of mountain rock blue straining against the sky
The bluest eyes I’d ever seen
Sparrow girl with the breathless wings
Embellished in vinyl’s and cassette tapes
Gramophone gilded lashes and half-moon wrists made up
Paper tapestries taped together with Shakespeare and Green
AdultsI envy those people
who leave home
and live like twenty-five year olds,
looking out for themselves
like folks did in the good ol’ days,
drinking whiskey straight,
driving all night with no limits,
loving and fucking without apology,
never having to remind someone
that they’re old enough—
Goddamnit, they’re old enough
and if they’re not cut loose
they’ll suffocate to death
without ever having breathed
on their own.
Alaska is hiding behind her eyesA girl caught up in the same game
Where circus tricks and trapeze artists
Are nothing compared to the burning of lungs
Where insomnia stains the people’s smiles
In a pale wash of sea foam angst bottled up and thrown
Into the horizon where the sky meets the earth
In a disjointed seam
She had hurricane rage eyes
And wishbone sleeves pulled tightly across her chest
To suppress her Medusa heart from cracking
The stars open and drinking their flames
Ocean funeral where Chaconne
Is played to sirens and sea urchins
Coiled beneath the oily depths of seascapes
Where her kite string spines push against the thin membrane
Of split grin skie
On the road again searching for lost thingsLake bones carved into words
The slow baked Texas heat seeping into
Galaxy veins and Saturn ring irises
Like cross hatched road maps
Leading to lost cities gilded in gold
The skies nursing oil spills like a wound
Your cat eye palpitations lingering
Behind drowsy eyelids
Where childhood adventures of never growing up
Spark between neurons and sneakers pounding
On old dirt tracks
Boyish dreams of Milky Way heroes
Make up the constellations of your breathing
Thank You FriendsThis is addressed to those who know me best,
I know it's been awhile, so excuse the wreckage of this mess.
I've been holding on to memories, that seem far too dear to me,
And ignoring those who made them a reality,
I've been squeezing so tightly on the pieces of the past
The only pieces of us that I can grasp, that I've forgotten
The brutalities of change, the condescending transformation
Left me feeling slightly broken, and utterly alone,
And the planes of my future, seem to be crashing
To the ocean floor.
I'll rot here in the sands of our crime,
If it means momentarily, I can feel alive.
To begin, let me say a few words to th
Our TransformationYour tongue catches the threat of my words
against your teeth, devising a dental devotion
for a more whole-hearted emotion,
your teeth, filtering out the real meaning
that strays from my lips in a rollercoaster disaster,
and the sound becomes defined in the voidless caricature of
your luminous thoughts, that are lighting each lantern
to direct me towards your love.
The knowledge that we savour comes in through the mouth,
beckoning us through once solitary corridors,
parched for thirst with cobwebs, once dark,
but also once innocent.
In through the mouth- awakened the sesnses
with a secret kiss, communicating together
For GnarlyI'm holding on to something too far passed love to define,
and I'm cherishing each smile, even if they aren't mine.
You've cast a shadow of doubt across my life,
and ripped apart the heart that has always been true.
I've trusted each word you so lovingly lavished
across my skin to the extent that I know no other
way to make you see how much I really do need you.
You say you love me, but your heart isn't in it,
you watch other women, and romanticize their feminity,
while I faithfully stand by, clutching the dagger that
you keep twisting into my chest because any touch,
any touch, even if it kills me, gives me hope.
And if I died he
I don't know you anymoreIt's been so many years,
and we've watched the same sun,
and the same moon disapear,
all that keeps us is distance,
but if there's not even a fraction
of space for me to breathe,
I can only search for something to say,
anything, but my tongue is parched
of words, though my lips are moist
with inspirational conversation.
I've heard stories, rumours even that
the person I once knew died today,
but I can't feel it, friend,
because between you and the mirror,
time went astray...
You've morphed, grownup,
and I just don't recognize you anymore,
there's no part of your face that I can
retrace to find our photographic history.
Smoke KeeperSmoke keeper, take me deeper
into the dreams I used to have,
let me delve in their prosthetic charm,
give me one last chance to disarm
myself from every stressful 'bout.
Let the fire smoke it out.
Smoke keeper, steer me out of the clear,
into a subjective excursion of my time,
where nothing else matters, aside from art.
I watch the flames yearning,
there licks sickly alive for burning.
Smoke keeper,a fanciful dreamer
is what you've made of me,
holding onto notions, that make me feel broken
in a listless romance between the ocean and the
sky, stuck somewhere in the middle of a
Oh, Smoke Keeper, disconnected f
Waking UpThe rustling of the sheets fill the digital clock's luminescent silence. You move in the motions of a swelling wave, drifting callously to dreams and then waking with a start, and a faint little gasp. Nightmares, nightmares painted ocean blue across the lids of your eyes, and I can see the panic subsiding there. I tighten my claw-like grip on the mattress, as the period quiet peaks. Deeper go my nails, at every little rush of breath being crushed out of your lungs. Murky sIit eyes socketed in scaled armour slink through the shallow sheets, jaws poised in the abandoned swamps of sleep. If only I were a crocodile with razor teeth, you wouldn't
Little ThoughtsNovember nights crumbling right under my feet,
I’m walking in a dream, or along the seams
Of in between, tasting stars as they bathe
In milky blue depths of winter’s breath.
I’m only slightly sleepless, and my bones
Ache, but I’ll lie down and meet your lips
With the softest kiss, even if I’m a nervous
Wreck. You’ve got charms in your pocket,
And life up your sleeves, and the bluest eyes
I’ve ever seen, and they only seem to grow
Bigger and more enchanting when we're
Inches apart, in the dark, skin touching,
Arms clutching. This might be nothing,
But it could be something.
27He had 27 bones
in his left hand, all under a thick netting
of coral reef. He had 27 bones in his right hand too, each perfectly preserved.
Both hands held their breath
as he approached stage exit.
Hit every bar, tour every state.
A river runs interstate through Texas.
Small yellow lines jump straight through it.
Take the US-27 from Fort Wayne to Miami. A second doesn’t make it
to his destination.
Cobalt. Aluminum. A third was found dead, drowned in his pool,
an empty shot glass floating beside him.
Cobalt weighed down his shoulders. Alumi
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`ChewedKandi has certainly gone out of her way to keep the vector community on the right path. Always making sure that her talents are infinitely scalable, Sharon has put her bezier curves to excellent use, and firmly anchored herself as an inspirational leader. We're absolutely delighted to bestow the Deviousness Award for June 2013 to `ChewedKandi. Congratulations, Sharon! Read More