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  1. 11 points
    every sentence you speak hums against my throat: you still awake? Your voice is drowning out my thoughts, I would let you go if I could remember how And Even if I could sleep, every Dream sounds like your flower scented voice You say you dream of me, of butterbeer and scented candles. but I Know. You're just telling me cuz you Feel so Alone. And who would dream of blue skies when there are bright stars above them? Each star twinkling like the jewels on your diamond necklace. Each bone glittering, osteoblast gemstones, blood like red dye number eight tattooed over R#3 hued muscle but i will say to you: don't walk away. not now. For then I will see the jewels in your necklace were glass instead of stars and your bones mere calcium instead of gems and your eyes, love, were only as full of the universe as i wanted them to be Our goodbye was a slow burn The world turned out of my hands and swept you away in the wildfire And as I tried to cut the stars from your eyes, you cried out Would kisses rend you, tear heart-flesh from rib-cage? Oh, our sweet, Sweet vanity. Wearing your presence like rubies, garnets, our love was a fire opal. We are rough and jagged, uncut diamonds scratching once smooth skin. the good ones, despite jarring metaphor, step back with 'are you sure?' but you, you were a good one in how you stepped forward and up, to reach the top of the pedestal you placed me on and the pedestal i made for you fell to earth along with he sky, with the stars, as you wept and those fiery comets dripped out with your tears the shattered pieces are a stronger monument to Pain than the smooth marble was to Love leave the architecture to the greek, my god, and don't bloody bare feet on fragments of my shattered heart that the ones before you ground to glittering dust follow not my path; I will not pave bloodstone, but rather marigolds. for marigolds are blooming suns that burst alive in the velvet sky; crystalline stars of burning passion. Swirling Van Gogh yellows will sweep you away with glittering shards of glass Ha! That's all we are And ever were: Brushstrokes and gemStones. The art Medium. Stars winking, remote and alone. Solitary titans, like those we used to be; or, perhaps, nebulas clusters like who we are now. Clinging to faint wisps of hope that this universe, this vast fresco of burning cyan and cushioned crimson, will one day take pity on us pitiful ones. and yet, statistically: space is more empty than full And even if we say otherwise, we are more empty than full, too. and so we are ever reaching, ever grasping: empty creatures striving to fill the void swallowing ground-up glass to make the stars to fill it can only do so much, we've learned that and the stars that aren’t bring blood from the walls of my throat as I try to choke them down i touch your cheek and Hope that all the Stars you've swallowed were real Because if they weren't, you'll be more broken than before And I, tattered as I am, will be left to glue together your pieces and plywood, sum of scraps, holds no candle to fine wine-stained cherry At the same time, too many metaphors leave sweet crumbs that scatter. Too many metaphors break us into idealized clay-footed statues, and we forget that we are only human in the end. Well, my love. I Believe we both Know the Time has come And so, dear one, adieu. The Collective Slam Poem: Nov/Dec 2017 was written by: @drowntown @queenie_flower @X_of_Coins @Short_comedian @Hydra ’Liope @WanderingMonster @Beautifulgarbage @O. Captain @septemberskies_ @mouse @writeandleft @conradbirdie @Apollo's Lover @thepensword @Over the Rainbow @flamecoloredglowstick Thank you for contributing to this masterpiece. It has been really fun seeing how we all created the poem. I hope to continue collaborating with all of you this year. The next Collective Slam Poem will be hosted by @drowntown. May your 2018 cure your writers block! -Hydralio
  2. 8 points
    *ok I have no idea what this is, but I saw this art on instagram titled "Blind Woman in Love with Medusa" and I just melted??? it was so beautiful and cute?? so I wrote this thing down. first draft.* I should be dead, really, I should his blade should have slit my charcoal-gray neck in one raw, stinging swipe pulsing, spitting thin liquid crimson his shield baring my repulsive reflection, the one I despise so much the one I hardly ever see because I try so hard not to look. I should be dead, really, but seeing myself ugly and monstrous in his shield gave me the fury of Hades (no pun intended) and I struck him down. now I am alone again in my lifeless garden the only flowers here are the ones tucked gently behind a young maiden’s ear she is cold, gray stone now, and I have memorized her features the flowers are violets. I do not know how much time passes after that and I truly do not care two more mindless travelers stumble into my garden two more mindless statues adorn the withering grass. but then one day she comes a woman’s footfalls treading lightly over stone I do not see her, but I feel her anticipated breaths in the air, almost scared, almost intrigued and I wait for her to come into the light to scream, freeze in shock at my hideous visage the writhing nest atop my head my ashen, hollow cheeks my dark eyes, deep like Tartarus with monsters lurking in the abyss the one Athena condemned. but she stares and stares, unaffected, beautiful, delicate and I stare and stare, wondering, grotesque, pained I realize, now, that she is not looking, her eyes are milky and useless. no, she is feeling and smelling and tasting and listening but not seeing, never seeing I laugh. I laugh and laugh and laugh, “has somebody sent you to kill me? you are the perfect weapon. immune to my ugliness.” she tilts her head, chestnut hair falling in a sheet “nobody sent me. I am no killer. I am curious, however, as to why you are.” “I do not try,” I say “my face is hideous enough. whoever sees me is finished, and I cannot control it.” I think of the maiden with the violets in her hair and how full of life she seemed now trapped in an eternal wide-eyes raised-brows open-mouthed fear. I tell the truth. “An unwanted curse,” the woman says unseeing eyes blinking, “I am sorry.” “what ever for?” she smiles slightly, and a giddy uncertainty takes to trembling wing in my chest. “for nobody ever taking the time to ask if you created your garden on purpose.” I almost smile back, but I remember that she cannot see. “either way, it is not beautiful,” I say. “it is not,” she says, “but the fact that you know that, is.” I smile this time and I know it is ugly, gray and unnatural but she doesn’t see of course she doesn't mind. the woman leaves and comes back the next day and the next, and the next, and the next, and the next and she tells me about the way the salty sea smells after a storm and I tell her about the way the leaves look just before they flutter to the ground like butterflies on gilded wings she brings me a woven basket of grapes and nectarines we laugh at the way the juice drips down our chins, warm and sweet she tells me my laugh is beautiful. I tell her that she is beautiful. she is silent. whenever she is with me and a traveler approaches, unknowing of my danger she directs them away so they do not lay eyes on me. my garden does not grow at all in an entire season. when I tell her this, I find that I have begun to weep and I cannot stop she embraces me and kisses me lightly on my marble-cold cheek. the warmth of her delicate, rose petal lips stays on my skin until she comes back the next day. she arrives, carrying nothing she sits on the grass next to me she says, “I love you.” she takes my hand. I say, “I love you,” and I almost begin to weep again but I tell myself that it would be foolish. then she begins to weep instead, a quivering smile on her lips, tears clinging like dewdrops to her lashes and I tell her about the way the sun looks as it rises in shades of rose and marigold. she says, “you’re beautiful,” and I do not protest. I gather her in my arms and hold her close she does not protest.
  3. 6 points
    Hey Slammers, Art Director Jacqui here. Question, have you ever doodled on a sticky note? For like ever we have been kicking around the idea of a low-stakes ongoing art prompt for the Slam. Something that would be just for fun and open to all levels of artistic capability; from stick figures to Rembrandts. We'd put out a topic and y'all would post in the thread your interpretation on a sticky note. So if the topic were "Sea Life Formal Attire," someone might post something like this: What do you think? Interested?
  4. 6 points
    iron & stone one day, i will ask myself why everything i am is laced with Blood, dark red like the moment despair turns into anger, like the instant before you die pour it into the hallow places in my collarbones, feed them hemoglobin; drain your veins, build up your marrow. paint my skin with it, open wounds in my metaphoric cardiac muscle, drink deep unravel my history like a spool of thread (with a skinning knife) spill my guts in crimson embroidered organs, unhinge your jaw, find my death-(rattle) at the end, (snake) teach me how to dance in death’s arms, i will need to at my wedding (father-daughter dance), should someone ever fall in love with Blood over bone, flesh over wire-frame-posable-skeleton tear off my cult-robe and peel back my skin all at once, rip from me Witch, and Queer, and Flesh, but leave me Blood, and Bone, and Death you can’t, you see. my Self is tattooed onto the surface of my bones: Blood runes when you kiss me for the first time i want you to taste the blood from my chapped lips, be disillusioned from perfection, be grounded, taste earth and take root behind my sternum one day, i will tell myself why everything i am is soaked with Blood, dark red like the moment you fall in love, like the instant you decide you want to live [Author's Note: Sorry about the Heavy Blood Symbolism I took a Homestuck Classpect test in like 2015 and have been hung up on my god tier (Mage of Blood) since then I just really love the Blood aspect]
  5. 5 points
    space, black tablecloth (and spilled salt), your starfields shivering behind the light pollution when i was young your immensity terrified me but one day, after loving after losing: you became a comfort where would i be? without your existential enormity and your nightfalling curtain call unwrapping staticky expanse? whose to conquer but mine? whose to conquer but those who know death, know it for what it is, who know it and have held it as a thing heavy and real and cold as a stone in their hands, know it and still dare turn skyward for answers? a man does not pray anymore after that (death and space are inextricable, are twined together in the same rope that contains life and earth and sea) i had no idea. you remind me of home, as freezing and boiling and toxic and friendly as any familial spat you do not scare me. you soar on a canvas (pitch like ocean depths) black like nothing, because you are statistically more nothing than anything (and perhaps we, too: more empty space than things) it is as if you come from the end, and the beginning, and whatever lies between you are not a god, a titan, a deity neither made from man's feeble wishes nor of anything man can comprehend you are more roiling and alive than any sea’s waves than any beryl-vibrant canopies (probability itself keels and chokes at your feet) you arrive bearing tomorrow on apollo's back (apollo who has nothing earthly to fear seizes when daring to comprehend the cosmos) i have marveled at everything you have deemed show me, have humbled beneath eclipse and quasi-stellar radio source youre so much more than any earthly location the celestial sunsong, the solar astrochemistry within supernovae you are not a deity just as polaris, you are as steady as orbital fluctuation you are nothing without the sum of your parts but you are indefinitely infinite, our little spinning top insignificant in its star-spun flight paths within the visible universe how massive you are, how humanly finite (viewfinding opal eyes: how weak and yet icarus had to have something to shoot for) o, sunspots, you are the hydrogen and energy too beautiful to look at for long (without risking blindness) and yet: blindness, pitch dark, natural state of everything that has ever, will ever have existed without you we wither as one with flora, with fauna space hurled together a haphazard goldilocks (everything dies, eventually. everything dies.) with you with inconceivable odds flourishes life, death, space, earth, sea (components woven together in the same rope) this is why, starfield, you are unlikely gravity, dream-maker why you refuse to pull taffy-linked planets too thin why you burst nova like every celestial sunsong i have praised many things, but you are more than any helios of short-sighted civilizations that within the sky found the sun the only thing to fear (and not the spaces between countless stars) by my weak human eyes, you are the very end.
  6. 5 points
    yellowing light and busy hands. i like your eyes, I search crowds for the back of your neck. bet you didn't know. you make me laugh, you make me feel happy so i ask for this light. light and your time, light and your time. i don't ask for a whole lot from you. i try to try to be a better person. is change a myth fed to us by bright colors and cheerful music? I'll never know the answers i don't know the questions, either i'm letting it all settle into my skin: dust suspended mid-air, particles of light, your hands on the piano, stargazing blankets, but watch for spiders until all the film is exposed and i can make sense of what was of what could be we'll see it all in glorious technicolor connect the dots, constellation
  7. 5 points
    original: http://cicadamag.com/index.php?/forums/topic/9321-dont-write-me-out/&tab=comments#comment-9297 anyways this is a poem about a homophobic, transphobic ex and im bitter as fuck kjsdkgjdfs i almost ran into the guy this poem was about in the college cafeteria a month or so ago and almost had a panic attack lmao god i Strongly Dislike him wow Eat The Rich Cishet Men i. listening to a new song on repeat, somehow i never get tired of the tune. i thought of you. how free i was (fired up and shot down, independent of your excuses and horribly casual 'im not gay and neither are you' or tiring 'youre a fucking girl' and 'why be proud of your identity? it's just an identity.' i didn't try should have known not never to reach out to you again.) ii. i talk a lot (either i always did i will not apologize for it or and you are starting to respond less. thank god.) and i apologize for my excitement. know that you don't deserve me this time, there's no answer. iii. local policy throws up firewalls between sound sites, sound bytes and half-rate speakers. i never was good at coding, and your language is one i don't know how to read. if i want to learn how to read. (silence has never been a thing i could deal with well. it radiates like static from your lips. but i don't need you, and you don't deserve pretty sugarcoated excuses for refusal to change.) iv. (am i falling out of touch? are you? you'd better fucking bet.) i forget you were my best friend. it's no fault of mine that anything has changed but you can barely look at me. spun glass threads hold us together. they're cracking. (thank god.) v. i wrote you out of a screenplay, suddenly wistful triumphant as hell (because for a good couple days i had forgotten you existed. written words made me remember) and i looked out the window, heart twisting. jumping with possibility. vi. we're in a state of 'never' and it was n't always meant to go this way. (we don't exchange words the way we used to, you know? maybe it's a result of finally standing up for myself.) vii. maybe it's because of what today is. (i forgot.) i still don't remember, thank god. do you regret anything, my dear? i don't. either respect my identity, or get out. viii. i reached out, fired up, (it had been a number of weeks since i had seen your face) shot down. graced with one-word courtesy, i didn't reach out again. why miss someone who's only done you wrong? vix. (i can deal with losing cutting you off. again. i can not deal with the cold and dismissiveness you throw at me, because we both know who's the better man.) at each fork and crossroads, i should never have offered meant every single 'we can still be friends' that i said. vx. i heard, a year later, that you'd switched programs and dropped out of fucking college for no apparent reason (or at least reasons i didn't care enough to pursue.) is this divine retribution? karma, maybe.
  8. 4 points
    have you ever woken to a blanket-wrapped world? i have. there's a magic in the white light that streams through your window, a magic in flinging back the curtains to a frost-covered earth. everything's clean, in the snow. everything's silent. have you ever stood in a cloud? i have. shin-deep in sugar-spun-frost, staring up as the stars flutter down, as the sky breaks into pieces to dance on your eyelashes. we are not built for the cold. our skin turns pink and our limbs numb and our eyes water and swell and our breath is clouds. by all rights, we should fear it. but who could fear something so beautiful? and in the blanket-silence broken by shrieking, ecstatic laughter, it is easy to see that we do not. there's a magic to it, you know? there's a magic in the snow days. there's a magic in the snow. AN: I. Love. Snow. Okay? I love snow. So yeah it snowed yesterday and I haven't written anything in a while so here we are.
  9. 4 points
    1. make yourself look bigger than it. YOU are the predator here. YOU are the dangerous beast. 2. distract it with loud noises, bright lights. the beast is stupid 3. show little emotion. do not let it see you are beaten down by its six rejections. do not show your anger at its curving and elusive lines. but show just enough to pass the "I am not a robot test." show enough to remind people that you are still breathing. 4. yell. scare it away. make it hide and cry like you once did. like you still do. 5. try again. deep breath. do not let your fingers tremble on the keyboard. do not let the beast win.
  10. 4 points
    hello, my name is beaten (teacher, teacher, call roll last names only, please) shoes kicked off to dance floor edges one sock black one sock grey sub-basement floor to ceiling mirrors line far wall (and bare pipes line concrete hallway ceiling. to clint: that is a natural gas pipe. we are the canaries.) we face the mirrors. right jab, left jab, hook, knee. block. block. hands up, forearms pressed together. box block. hook. step, pivot, roundhouse. focus on the motion do not focus on the thing you are insuring against pair up. practice hold escapes (teacher, teacher, call roll last names only, please) he demonstrated the 'domestic violence choke' (aside, to me: what a terrible name) focus on the motion do not focus on what you are insuring against box block. twist. palm strike. try not to flinch when your classmate's cool hands touch your neck box block. twist. roundhouse.
  11. 4 points
    i. grey blue roses edged in gold he's standing there in the parking lot of bed bath & beyond just across from the sensible restaurant of the family, friends, and i. he’s wearing ratty old converses and his hair is recognizable and his eyes are those that i’ve missed. his shirt is clean, almost pressed, and it hangs off his gangly shoulders, the very ones i was once afraid of crushing. it's not different, in fact it has a startling likeness to his existence between white and yellow painted brick walls and overheated and overemotional glances. it’s his wings, small jumbled grey ones fluttering in the wind and damp from the rain that separates him from what i think is real and what i know isn’t. he sounds like a d minor chord on an old wheezing piano and sad laughter from an overfilled but too-hollow cafeteria. we stare at eachother, angel and mortal, till his lips part and he whispers a whisper that i can hear clearly in my head, open your eyes. and then the server is setting plates down of food and the angel shivered out of existence. the first time i saw him with those dapple grey blue wings was when i was asleep. he sat on my windowsill and helped me down, carried me over the red brick and shrubbery and smiled as i set my bare feet against the cold cement. it was too quiet, but he walked me to a mcdonalds anyway and sat me outside and told me he loved me in between bites of his chicken nuggets. this is how i knew he wasn’t really the boy i saw in my waking life. but i still saw the angel now and again. he reminded me of his grey blue traced in gold, small veins of something more valuable. i thought i saw him running on the field outside another building of yellow and white (this one bigger) but it was a different boy. still tracings of gold, melting and dripping, but on a backdrop of innocent and good intending white. nothing like the tired and weary blue. i'd gotten my closure, the day our eyes met through the bus door glass as he descended like a king to play peasant with a poor farmer boy. but the angel haunted me. promised me salvation every step of a tiring journey that only ended in me falling off of a cliff. ii. white and gold lilies golden flickering lights poking through the dark of a city, a violin singing middle, then high, then low like a backtrack, feathers dipped in liquid metal. he is an angel, with white wings and black hair and gold everything else, but he's not my angel. he's the innocence of a group of friends buying drinks and ambling down a sidewalk and giggling in the cubby of a large turning wheel. he’s the gentle hum of cars over a highway and the breathing of lover. he floats and sprinkles stardust and dotes over teenagers who think they're going to live forever. we wonder where his golden heart tipped arrows went. he was mumble rap with the twinkle of something lighter over the thrum of a beat, the cheerful whisper of sailor moon and sushi on a sunday. he was a party, confusing, wild, making your heart thump. seconds of something interesting and lovely, but days of that to someone else. someone who needed that. he could be a lion if he wanted to, walking into rooms with his chest out like he's daring lonely hyenas to snap at his heels. he doesn't wait for me in parking lots and doesn't pick white daisies for me but his eyes flash in between buildings and i’m certain the white and gold feather and drifted to my feet belonged to him. of course he wouldn't leave it there on accident, he was the type to pluck it off his wings and hover above me with his cheek on his knuckles as he flicked it from his fingers, smirking as i bent to pick it up. he wasn't my angel, neither was the blue one, but unlike the bluebird the golden cupid had someone (else) to protect, he just liked to dance around the rules. iii. crumpled chrysanthemums this angel was like turning on a spotlight in a dark room. it was inky and the grey blue rose’s hand was on my shoulder and the white and gold lily was hovering over me with a smirk. but then the lights flicked on. these lights are gold and orange. glittering faintly of yellow and radiating warmth. like tapping someone on the arm for them to turn around and greet you with a sunrise of a smile. he was a sunrise. i couldn’t move my thoughts through my mouth. this angel poured himself into my presence so unlike the others did. his hair was on fire and his wings fluttered excitedly. smiles smiles smiles. he told me my eyes were root beer and i wanted to tell him i was losing my power to drag words from my heart or else i would have showered him in what he needed to know: you are beautiful. you are worthy. you are everything to me. this angel sat with me in the park and bought me hot chocolate but his face crumpled, sometimes, too. just like the lily and the rose, this boy crumpled, and it was strange to see someone so alive have so many scars. i saw the other sides of this angel, too; how he curled his feather-down wings around his shoulders when he needed to and cried like any other human. i thought maybe this was the angel meant for me, but i knew this wasn’t the case and that was okay. this angel didn’t have the choice, he was the lion and bared his teeth in a smile that didn’t make people shy away but rather brought them closer. this angel hid things but talked liked he was freedom himself. this angel was terrified of the same things as i was. his wings were pale and freckled with orange, just like the boy. a proper weasley, you could say. and i could see the bravery. he was so mortal so much more living than the angels before him, yet so unafraid to hold me, to let me stutter, to sweep me up in his arms. he wasn’t lingering looks and building tension. he was honesty. when he told me he loved me, i knew it was him. his bravery leaked into my heart, like holding bright orange flowers in the rain and seeing the petals fall and drip over my skin. i wanted nothing more. when he touched my back, i felt something. i think maybe, this boy taught me that i had wings too. we protect one another, now. or at least we try. (note: i'm super sorry if this doesn't count as fiction??)
  12. 4 points
    heartbeats. if there is not room for all the things you need to say shrink down to the size of insignificance and pay attention to what you're made of. atrium. here you will find scar tissue and building block memories in a castle of too-sharp pain. there is something beautiful in broken things, learn to appreciate it and maybe maybe maybe some of the loose puzzle pieces will fall into place. veins. the things you tried to forget are here. when she doesn't talk to you anymore, come here. when you're afraid of losing him, come here. wrap your shoulders in warm-breathed nights of unholy confession, in arms covered in sharpie because we're too young for tattoos. live in the past for a moment or two while you still have the chance. ventricles. step inside and put your hands behind your back clasp your fingers like you're trying to keep from falling apart and watch. if depression is a chasm this place is a mountain dreams like blue-white water froth and your soul is an ocean. maybe if you squint your stained-glass eyes and hold the breath you're already losing there might still be hope. vena cava. fill your lungs with stale air and breathe out something fresh. don't shake too hard. take one last look at the twisted ground you don't understand. like preschool art or a homemade card it's probably worhtless but someone still cares. ________________________ author's note: i live for using different pronouns in romance-y parts of poems
  13. 4 points
    without fuel, the engine will not turn. i, faulty word-machine, am low on oil. the tortured artist paints with blood their own blood, the blood of those they lost. the blood of those that harmed them. my brush is wet only with water thin lines of pigment left by small misfortunes. what is a poet without the tales to tell? i have written novels of lives that are not mine, i have poured emotion into experiences that are not my own. but the words were lies and so i stopped and made do with the anthills beside your himalayas. when i was younger i won an award. 'congratulations! your poem is great!' and i stood before a crowd of family and friends and i read: 'cherry blossom, cherry tree' soft and sweet. and then, smiling, i sat down and listened and what i heard was raw, beautiful pain. i do not have that pain. i do not have those words. but i have a mind. and so, high on the sense of freedom words provide, i write. AN: this is not my best.
  14. 4 points
    this next year is going to be fantastic. glitter-drenched & glowing, & i’m speaking that into existence. going to be the year i go back to california, almost six years after the wedding. i’m going to bask in the glow of the jellyfish & (almost definitely) end up crying at the beauty of the natural world—thank G–d for all the fish! this year has been a bad one for most everyone who lived to see it, but this next year, i swear, is going to be my best one yet. !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! last poem of 2017!!!!!!!!!!! i am Speaking this good year into existence!!!!!!!!!!!! fuck yeah!!!!!!!!! (i am very caffeinated)
  15. 4 points
    talking to you feels like stabbing myself in the chest with something sharp and beautiful every second hurts but it’s just too nice of an experience for me to stop jewels cascade instead of blood precious objects dripping slowly from wounds inflicted long ago drops of ruby tears sapphire longing i sew up my wounds to wait for our next encounter
  16. 3 points
    could you imagine that, if only for a second, everything you saw, said, read was filled with color? could you see your fridays as icy blue? shimmering to almost match january, february. the clare de lune starts off golden like C and Y, darker than dandelions, and shining. then, quicker than a 32nd note, it moves to friday blue. suddenly it’s indigo and the world sinks into its purple-ish depths. imagine being able to count the rainbow. imagine calculations in everyone else’s black and white, but there are hidden spots of color between your fractions. 2 blue, 3 pink, 44 double dark green. the ones without colors? you say, there must be some. the ones without colors feel like missing keys on a keyboard, like trying to write peach may without the vowels. author's note: just for clarification, this poem is about my experiences with synesthesia! i wrote it for an assignment in english class but i liked it so much that i decided to post it here!
  17. 3 points
    i am a little girl and we are walking. 'i just don't know, daddy,' i say. it's a bright day, with the sky a bright cotton-candy blue and the clouds chasing each other across its expanses. the news is riddled with politics, as it always is, but i am only just starting to open my eyes to it. 'i don't even know if i'm a democrat or a republican.' he eyes me for a moment. 'ok,' he says thoughtfully. 'well, it should be pretty easy to tell.' 'ask me questions,' i say. 'and tell me by my answers what i am.' and he does. he asks me many things. he asks me about black and white and freedom and confinement. he asks me about the death penalty. he asks me about abortion. some of these things are easier to answer than others. there's one, though, that stands out to me now. we're three-quarters of the way home, and the hill is steep enough that the dog is starting to lag. 'what about gay marriage?' he says. this is before it's been legalized, and we are in north carolina where politics has always been a few steps behind. i think about this for a moment. i have an answer but i don't know how to say it. 'i think,' i say carefully, laden with eight-year-old wisdom and confining societal philosophy, 'that they should be allowed to marry. it's weird and i don't think it's...natural, or whatever, but it's not my business what they do.' we stop as the dog sniffs a spot in the grass. my father is frowning slightly, eyeing me with a thoughtful gaze. 'why isn't it natural?' he asks, and i pause. 'it just...isn't.' he tells me that it is. that it's perfectly natural. i'm troubled, and doubtful, but i am eight years old and i do not question the things i'm told. (he tells me i'm probably a democrat, based on my other answers, though it doesn't really matter at this stage in life.) homosexuality comes up more and more over the years and i start to warm to it. it's still weird, and unnatural, but i brush it to the side. if they're happy, then fine. i don't care. and besides, it's not like i'm gay. i've had crushes on boys, right? and, after all, you can't be gay if you don't want to be. that's what i think, ten years old and staring out the car window. you can't be gay if you don't want to be. you hate that, right? you hate everything i've said. it's funny to think you might have hated me, then, if i hadn't been kind and adorable and lovable in every way. i'm fifteen and it's dark out. i'm dressed in my dance clothes, almost bare naked in the winter; my dad and i have already had our argument about car temperature. i'm hot and sweating, having just exercised, but he's been sitting in the car for an hour and he's freezing. the overpass curves before us, lit only by the headlights of his blue jeep cherokee, and we're talking amiably. i don't know what leads to it, but he says something that night that lingers. 'and when and if you have a husband...' he pauses for a moment, and then says, gentler, 'or a wife, then—' and the rest is obscured by foggy memories but i remember thinking, 'thanks, daddy, but i'm straight.' but it stuck. i'm straight, right? what follows is hot showers and existential dread. i've since opened my eyes more to the community; i have queer friends. i know more. one of the things i know about is bisexuality. 'i'm straight,' i think, but then i think: 'am i?' it's mid-winter. it's freezing and i'm in the car on a way to an audition. everything is perfectly normal. my mom is beside me, the radio is playing soft music, and i'm texting my best friend. she's dating her first boyfriend and she needs advice: she wants to break up with him but she doesn't know how to say 'no' or 'i don't want this anymore'. she's afraid that it'll hurt him and his family, and so she's content to let this continue to hurt her. i have no experience with relationships but i give her advice anyway. the three little dots bounce on the screen and she says 'thank you for putting up with me. if you ever need help with anything, don't be afraid to ask.' and i stop dead. this is the worst timing possible; i'm in the car next to my mother, who does not know, on the way to an audition. i'm hopped up on anxiety: if this goes awry, my audition will be terrible. i will likely not manage a poker face in the small confines of the car. i'm not thinking about these things, though, as i text her back. 'actually there is something. i've been thinking about this a lot over the past year and i haven't told anyone but i think i might be bisexual.' there's a long pause, wherein i very nearly die. oh god, i think. she hates me. the three little dots are back. 'i'm back. sorry, i was walking into the house.' a pause. i'm trying not to cry, from anxiety and fear and relief and tension. 'oh. i'm so sorry i have literally the worst timing.' the little dots bounce like they're taunting me. 'ok first of all, know this changes nothing. i'm still your friend and i love you.' and suddenly it's real. but not...quite. two months later it's my birthday. i'm sixteen and i'm bundled with nerves and i sit my family down and i say, in many more words: 'i'm bisexual.' my parents tell me they love me. my dad says, 'i want you to know you can tell us anything.' my brother says nothing, but leans over to give me a hug. this is the first time i've said it aloud and it's the first time it's felt so real. i'm bisexual. i'm bisexual. now i think i may have been wrong. i may just be biromantic; i may be asexual or demisexual, i might even be aromantic, but that's not the point. the point is you would have hated the me from the beginning, who called you unnatural and thought it was a choice. the point is i grew. anyone can grow; it's easy, once you open your eyes. it's okay to make mistakes if you someday will learn from them. so do not hide people away; help them learn. help them grow. but most importantly: define yourself as who you are now: someone who has grown. someone who has learned. do not let yourself be defined by who you once were.
  18. 3 points
    last night i woke up in a blind panic because i forgot i was in my own bed i felt myself in his again, felt his hands around my neck- and this is why i do not sleep anymore. exhaustion is a small price to pay for a fleeting feeling of safety in a world where every word and step i take is dangerous. my world is full of sharp edges and sirens, bright lights and warning signs. is this safe? am i safe? last time i heard his pet name for me i curled up on the floor and did not get up until i was my me again, my body is my temple cracked pillars supporting crumbling facades self care is a futile attempt at recovering something that is not mine and that is far too broken to be fixed. i feel like an anchor thrown overboard and sinking heavy dead weight which is funny because i am most scared of drowning water on me on my tongue in my hair on my skin sends me into a curl-cry-cant-breathe-do-not-touch-me until everything is so empty, i am his alice with her river of tears my hurt is so big that magic mushrooms can no longer shrink it and start, stop, breathe. breathe until my lungs are empty, full, tangible, until i am real again and feel the ache of holding my breath. wait that is not my breath i am holding it is my trauma, laid neat and clean in an evidence locker, organized and numbered in order of importance on a police report, in a shiny new complex-ptsd diagnosis that glows in the dark and does 17 various things like, start, stop. i am laid out on an operating table cold and bare gutted and dissected, when they tell me what happened to me like i do not already know when they whisper soft under breath that i still feel i am not breathing what happened to me, gossip in pastel tones, low-key, on the down-low i am not my own, i am empty and owned. full-stop. (wow that felt,,,, like feeling something again)
  19. 3 points
    she's compacted dust and layers of stratum she's pine wood and wicker and rusted bicycles left in the sun eyelids fighting sleep, her face like desert sand with its blotchy redness, terra cotta clay and deep purple, dry rivers around her eyes face under the faucet to wake up paint on your fake skin and delicate bronze shimmer, banish the arid wind far from this place work your magic veiling mud cracks and little pockmark hills make your eyes seem alive later water will erode the strata, driftwood and orangeade and mulberry stains on old wine glasses beneath layers of photoshop the grand canyon is breathtaking and beneath her foundation so is she ~~~ author's note: we're studying rock in science, this poem was inspired by that, and also the fact that i find people really beautiful before they do anything in the morning, no matter how dead they look lol also, hello! I'm amelia, and i've been reading your guy's poetry for a long time. (that's not creepy at all xoxo) i'm happy to finally be here, and to meet you all!
  20. 3 points
    the moon is like a glowing crescent. it was yellow earlier, but now it's just grayish whitish silver. you've been watching it for hours now. who knows what time it is? who cares? you roll over and stare at the wall of your bedroom that you painted blue last year but you wish it was less colorful. you don't get enough sleep and you know it. you've been seeing a therapist for almost a year now. you're getting better. slowly your hands shake and you're unsteady on your feet. you turn up your music and feel your heart match the beat. you close your eyes. all too soon, you open them, wish it wasn't time to get up and go to school. you know you could live like this. you also know you won't. you are a warrior author's note: sorry this is so fucking long, but i need to rant so. . . .
  21. 3 points
    kicks m leg hiya !!! i'm izaak ?? i'm super new wheeze so a million apologies if i mess something up! um i like bears. as you can probably tell by my username lmao. i draw a lot and im super into green aesthetics (u can see all o' that over on my tumblr at bearajuana wink wonk) i write a lot of gay shit but idk if ill post a lot of it here? probably mostly just rambles or rps ?? i never have any idea what i'm doing i have? a lot of interests? anime and books mainly. hit me up with free / haikyuu stuff or six of crows / harry potter stuff because i'm aggressive eye emoji at that goodness i have a far too long list of bands and music that im in love with on such a high level its kind of concerning also im gay. really really gay. i love my boyfriend lastly: i don't care if this is wrong but i heavily believe that plural form of anus is ani and past tense of wink is wunk. fight me (don't actually)
  22. 3 points
    He got on and turned to look There she stood With his suitcases He didn't go back to get them The doors shut
  23. 3 points
    moonselves, of rust and radiance above the sputtering sodium and luminescent fluorescent glare in the three am semi-black sky reflection and distorted refraction split between rabbit and old man either honored, spun or spoken who are we in moments unseen standing soul-shaken and awed in the three pm semi-black sky eclipse and unrelated equinox split between dragon and witch neither damned, fable or truth who are we in moments unseen looming phosphorescence above rusted and radiant moonselves // After "starfield", prompt by @drowntown, which I followed almost (but not) exactly. Other notes: I apparently can't make up compound words worth anything, so I used a compound word generator, which was thoroughly hilarious. I also at some point googled "objects with faces", which was a mistake. (The internet is a weird place, y'all.)
  24. 3 points
    starfield, of empty pitch and streaking sun flares 'cross glass, 'cross windows, through soul mirrors sunder you one self from the next sugar and honeyed violets split between quarter sides, lucky penny neither sweeter, hush and pounce to which do i make acquaintance? splintered sight, oh spin roulette sunder me one self from the next agave and candied ginger split between die faces, lucky number four neither sweeter, melodious and trite to which do you make acquaintance? streaking sun flares 'cross glass, 'cross starfield of empty pitch.
  25. 3 points
    *alright so the thing is I have all these little magnets with words on them and such, and I thought why not try to write a poem using only those words? so this is what I came up with. and this just made me think about how much I freakin adore the english language!!! like, it's just so amazing!! I love words <3* I see an elaborate picture from beneath a rose petal sky: sweet pinks blowing lazy fingers of mist from the smooth lake, wanting sweat is a thousand tiny diamonds on my skin a delirious whispered language of milk and honey, hot blood pounding in my breast and a spring symphony I am drunk on the moon lusts over daylight, the sun soars through raw peach summers with singing wind a frantic red haired goddess of life, mad beauty, black seas my feet in bitter stormy waters are bare blue shadows, never still; with a languid purple tongue one timeless rusted cry dresses me in a luscious fashion of music and rain and these gorgeous lively things I achingly need.
  26. 3 points
    Thank you,,, I'm the English Major Kid who just really loves symbolism and Might Secretly Be A Vampire (I did wear fangs for like 4 months of school last year)
  27. 3 points
    Birdie, I really hope this gets better for you. Know you’re loved here. @woundedBirds I will also call you son, but mostly for shits and giggles bc you’re only slightly older than me and i make a habit of calling people slightly older than me things like kiddo and sweetie pie and son
  28. 3 points
    in the bitter mid-december, my father and i drive half-way across the country to collect the contents of an abandoned dorm room. i do not know it yet, but this will be my last time on the campus for the foreseeable future, the most vivid memory of which will be melting my bike lock open with bare hands in the minnesota cold. on the way home, we will eat indian food at a truckstop somewhere in the vast expanse of nebraska. despite the ghee and the coriander, the saag will taste like sawdust. to compensate for the loss, for the lack of goodbyes and good graces, i will knit innumerable hogwarts house scarves and give them away on every applicable winter holiday. (it will be the third scarf - the second hand-knit - i will have given my best friend in two years.) i will stymie my frustration with every stitch. a visit in the weeks before new years will result in a multi-month identity crisis, and in my attempts at clarity, i will feel starved while drowning in alphabet soup. i will be reassured that this normal. the time that follows will be characterized by monotony; also, statistics. i will be one of twenty-seven to take a mathematics class at a local university. i will be a part of the two point three percent unemployed. i will join approximately six million others in a yearly visit to california. later, despite the flaws of my gpa, i will be accepted as one of approximately twenty-eight thousand undergraduates to study three hours from my hometown. (i will be relieved, if vaguely disappointed.) in the interim, i will take the summer to escape, tumbling off the grid into a quaker summer camp, where i will hike countless miles to destinations unknown and swim in a dozen frigid mountain lakes. i will relearn my laugh and exercise it often. i will remember how to eat three meals a day, if only to set an example, and when my mind begins to unravel, i will discover that the greatest gift of friendship sometimes takes the form of a pillbox and the patience to listen to my babble while doling out a week’s worth of medication. i will leave exhausted and proud. nine months into the year, i will move into a one-bedroom apartment a few blocks from a new campus with my partner. we will adjust to each other’s ticks and twitches - mostly. we will visit his family for thanksgiving, and i will survive the event. meanwhile, i will be put on a cocktail of prescriptions - seven pills a day - that miraculously works. i will take a partial load of classes and succeed. i will feel an unfamiliar optimism. there will be christmas, then the new year. i will make no resolutions but to live.
  29. 3 points
    my head explodes with meaningless thoughts awkward smiles, shy laughter, stumbling one word answers. I want to scream because no, no, here I am again, before you at a loss for words when all I want to do is speak, and my thoughts are countless. but what do you talk about when you talk about nothing? I wait too long and my traitorous lips stay shut
  30. 3 points
    shine, cherry blossom. reach out with your petals and forget about the fall. look up at the stars and say, i am one of them. look down at your own naked, blemished, perfect body and say inside of my chest is star just like those. and then reach inside and share it. when a star dies, it does not end. it explodes. when a star is born, it is nestled in a gaseous cloud of its sisters and it holds around it a careful-crafted collection of its children. planetoids and such, holding millions of stars of their own. we are all made of stardust. did you know that when a superstar dies, it does not disappear? it goes out with a bang and becomes a black hole. and the thing about black holes? their gravity. when a cherry blossom falls, she does not hit the ground. she soars on the wind and joins the clouds. pale pink and sweet-scented and filled with joy and even the wilted ones form a blanket of softness like the asteroid belt in a solar system. you, my friend, are a cherry blossom. and you are a star. when you die, your planetoids will die with you. they will weep and cry wilted blossoms around the tall, sturdy trunk that is your skeleton. and then they will grow trees of their own from the seeds you left. and every tree, and every flower, and every you: stardust. so, little star: do not forget to fly. A/N: sometimes when i decide to write random words come out and i don't even know what they mean but i think this one is a result of my hopeless optimist bleeding through.
  31. 3 points
    I’m cold, you said, so we lay together on the couch in the hurricane of our friends. You’re always cold, I said, but didn’t move away because hell, I was cold, too. And we lay there, my head against your collarbone and my laughter echoing in your lungs. Opposites from the normal, when you want random hugs and we’re the right height ratio for it to be the absolute most effective. Don’t you have another best friend for this, I ask. She’s too short, you respond, tucking your head under my chin. We fit together better. I’m hungry, you said, and you stole popcorn from her bowl and she rolled her eyes at you but didn’t move. I didn’t that it was the only thing I’d seen her way that day. Stop chewing, I said, because your jaw kept hitting the top of my head, and you talked with your mouth full to say shut up. And we talked about pointless things like the proper way to eat French fries (no mayo. You’re a fucking psychopath) and whatever K-Pop girl you were obsessed with this week (her face, it’s just so… perfect. I don’t know if I want to have it or her) and I complimented her vaguely (have it, then maybe I’d attract boys) but not remember her name. And you asked me am I still your favorite fake twin? and I answered yes, obviously. My least favorite wingwoman, though and we laughed again because there was no way on this side of hell you’d ever be able to successfully pick up a guy for me, no matter how many times you said I’d totally date you. I don’t see how girls can look at guys and go ‘I’d date them’ when girls exist, but then straight boys don’t have that problem. And I rolled my eyes and said Don’t forget bi boys but you rolled your eyes back, even if I couldn’t see it and said, well, the only truly bi boy I know thinks young Putin is hot. You’re not dating him. And then we both laughed again and continued to talk about pointless things and I know that she’s going to be the one I text five years from now just to say, you lesbian spork what’s your problem today and you’ll still respond as if we were on this couch yesterday. Because that’s just how we are.
  32. 3 points
    The flood roared over us Like an unexpected hug, Heavy and sudden. I was swept under the briny tide. I squinted at the rush of sea, I breathed in the warm green water. Bubbles escaped from my eyes And I waited in the hissing silence, Patiently hoping to die. The minnows came and nibbled the tips of my toes, I brushed the backs of turtles with my hands, The starfish whispered ocean tales and Seaweed waved back at my tattered hair. In the dim blue light I looked at the sand And wondered when I would die. Luminous fish blinked in the dusk As the world darkened toward night. The flood waters ebbed, the current stilled. I came to rest on gentle whales. Their broad grey backs rose to the sky As sea lions called and seagulls soared And I asked my rippling reflection Why I could not die. Dawn came pink and salmon, Until the sun set once again. The moon shone white as silver And volcanoes climbed and fell. Clouds billowed through the cleanest air, The planet kept turning, fertile and gold, And I thought of all the stars I’d seen, All the stories of the great ice floes. As I remembered wonders as only time could tell, I realized I’d wished so hard to die While the sweeping tide tried to bring me to life.
  33. 3 points
    there were five days of my life. they were pure joy. they were butter-yellow, sun is shining, butterfly wings. butterflies. don't forget the butterflies. and then i saw your face and the butterflies flew into the fucking sun. here's the thing. i can't distinguish between love and Love. i knew i loved you, but i thought i Loved you and i was wrong. i was W R O N G. it was raining outside. no, it was gray. it was raining on my face. when we met i said yes, let's keep going and then i got home and cried tears of change. my father said, tell her. and so i did. do you know what you said? you said, i feel the same. you said, i didn't know how to tell you. you said, you beat me to it holy shit. and you know what i thought? i thought, thank god. so here's the thing about love and Love. it's hard to tell the difference. but when someone loves you, really loves you, (love, and not Love, though it shouldn't have to matter) change does not change anything and butterflies are not a wall. see, when i said, i love you, i meant it and when you said it back, you meant it too. and when we saw each other again, it was butter-yellow and nothing had changed and the unfortunate smear of color where the paint ran out is artfully crafted into a patch of light on our relationship canvas. not forgotten, but swept aside. you know? that's the thing about growth. you never see it coming. A/N: the conclusion! Everything is fine now. It's all back to normal and I'm up past midnight writing a shit-ton of poetry again.
  34. 3 points
    there's something worse about being self-aware. when it's 5pm and i'm trying to fit in when it's 7 and i'm failing when it's exactly 11:26 and i'm trying not to cry. and maybe i don't want all our conversations to be about sex because there's more to the world than that and i don't want you to tell me in badly disguised tones that you're a happy group without me. but the thing is that i know being a teenager is hard and dumb and pointless teary eyes i know i know i know but it doesn't hurt any less and even though i think it should the knowing never changes how i feel. ---------------------------------------------------------------------------- Author's note: Friends are hard.
  35. 3 points
    my family took a test two years ago, (what are your strengths, your weaknesses, ones you didn't even know you had) and above all else, above the people-pleasing and self-blaming and nervous-wreak running through all our veins, there was the 'beauty, appreciation of'. which is why i get poured full of swirling warm emotion at too many things to count, tall grass bent with frost, the controlled chaos of messy rooms, certain songs by certain artists at certain times, and why i can't stop grinning when i see you. ((im still desperately trying to figure out poetry, so if any of y'all have any suggestions, i'd love to hear them!)
  36. 3 points
    If you can change the color of your room I can change the color of my hair to a brilliant fuck-you-blue What's wrong with claiming this body as my own? what wrong with making this body my home?
  37. 2 points
    Dear Dearly Departed, I'm not sure how formal this letter should be, or what will comfort you. I’m not even entirely sure how you’ve managed to die in an abandoned orchard of all places, especially with that much medicine around you, considering medicine is supposed to help humans and all, so I don’t know how to ease your worries there. The good news is, you’ll never physically hurt again! Say goodbye to all your mortal fears! The bad news is that you clearly have some unfinished business, so you’ll be trapped here until you figure out what said business is, and how to complete it. I’m very sorry for your loss. I’m lucky enough to have befriended a few humans over these years, so I can explain things as best as a random human can. Which is, admittedly, not very well. But I do hope I can help you, at least a little bit! The Unofficial (Though Official Due To Lack Of Other Options) Guide To Being A Ghost: Daylight fades ghosts. Think of it as a very, very slow eraser to your very existence. There’s a reason most hauntings occur during the nighttime. You can choose your haunting spots, I do believe! I’m not sure why ghosts haunt, perhaps you’re feeling a little bitter and you need to vent, perhaps it’s just a fun wholesome activity for the whole ghostly family! You cannot touch the physical world as you normally would. I’ve heard of ghosts who possess people just to eat their favourite food again. I’ve also heard that ghosts normally choose people who are extremely tired, perhaps they’re more suggestible, more likely to wave off strange happenings? Possibly because the dark circles under their eyes can look a little spooky. I’m not sure how into dramatics you are. And, an addition, just to ease your worries when you wake up and see a letter and not much else:) You will not be able to contact me in person. The nighttime is your realm, the daytime is mine. I hope after all that ghostly business this isn’t as much of a shock to you, but I’m a dryad, being out and about after dark saps me. Get it? Sap? I do hope you’re alright, I’ve left some paper and pens behind for you to both practice manipulating real world objects and for you to write me back, but I completely understand if that’s difficult for you at first. Have a great first night! dear someone (seriously, what am i supposed to call you? ash? oak? unnamed tree?) i can write. but its hard to. i cant pick things up, its all just thinking ridiculously hard about what i want to do and trying to get enough energy to do it. so just like i was when i was alive lol. i really want to swear but you sound like a literal angel and it feels all uncouth to. so like. what the fir. (see, theres a tree joke for you.) you seem sweet and all but its weird writing to someone i dont know, literally all the practice i got letter-writing was thank you notes to my grandma for a five dollar bill she gave me for my birthday or whatever. so i might be bad at this. im sorry. dont expect me to use a lot of exclamation points or make all the cutesy little quips you do, im not exactly hyped to still be up and kicking and its one extra line i have to write if i do joke around. im trying to write a lot, not write everything well. i dont want to know any more about being a ghost. i dont want to be here, i dont want to hear about it. i do want to know about you, though. are we writing on the guts of your fallen friends? you just left me a fir ton of paper and youre a tree? why are you so chill about leaving me ground up pulp of you? who are you? do you have a name? do you want a name? why is your handwriting so nice, who taught you that? the suns coming up. im hiding just in case itll just get me stuck but faded. like a really tight jean jacket. have a great three millionth day or however many!!! jamie
  38. 2 points
    little known fact that i just made up: the proper singular of beeves is boof
  39. 2 points
    it is absolutely proper etiquette and i give you my respectful FUCK YEAH
  40. 2 points
    @conradbirdie @drowntown still not sure if this is proper etiquette on this site but h e c k t h a n k y o u s o m u c h omg asdfghkl
  41. 2 points
    Strands of gold in the sunlight, pulled apart so you could wonder. So you could see your dreams unfold in all of the colors you could not see, and all of the dreams you say you don't believe in. Rumplestiltskin made the gold, but you found the golden in Rapunzel’s blonde. You found the light in the darkness, but saw the beauty in shadows. All that glitters isn’t gold, so you caught the sparkles in my eyes and gave them value. And all that shines isn’t sunlight, but my smile still brightened your day.
  42. 2 points
    If you can change the color of your room I can change the color of my hair to a brilliant fuck-you-blue What's wrong with claiming this body as my own? what wrong with making this body my home? The monsters used to be in my closet And under the bed but now I'm older and they're in my head and I'm cranking out push ups in my boxers every night so maybe I can get a few hours rest and my chest won't feel so tight I've spent years building up my pride And feeling ok in my skin is so rare that I panic in self doubt
  43. 2 points
    hey, city girl, with your blonde-tipped waves and three dollar lashes, you're gorgeous. I hope you travel the word like you always wanted to spending your money on lipstick and sweet dark coffee and shining spray paint, I hope you turn that dusty alley into a work of art. dance like the leaves on the wind because one day you'll be dancing in front of millions people will line up to see you sparkling under the spotlights. swing your ponytail and keep doodling on those high tops, handmade earrings bouncing. I hope you realize you're a diamond in the rough I hope you get on your bike and pedal as fast as you can and pass all the buildings you've known your entire life belting off-key song lyrics to the starry heavens. I hope you ride right off the edge of the world and keep on going into eternity.
  44. 2 points
    Hey! I don't really know what I'm doing, but it seems like the thing to do is to write a bit about myself, so here goes. You can call me Jane! I'm into art, music, writing, reading, films, comics, etc... I just kind of dabble around in anything I find interesting. By daytime I'm an art student, by nighttime I'm a sleep-deprived art student (trust me-- they are entirely different beings). I love The Decemberists, Sufjan Stevens, my cat, Radiohead, Franz Kafka, surrealist paintings, and podcasts. Though I've been reading Cicada for years, I'm very new to the slam. I look forward to getting to know this site, and all of you creators out there, a little bit better!
  45. 2 points
    You are dreamers, you’re wild, Trust me, I know. I was one of you once, A long time ago. I refused to grow up, I was strange, I was strong, Just like you, who will never belong Because you’re monsters And you wander the tangled roads. You outcasts, explorers, You search for lost treasure, Some fantasy Holy Grail. They all stare At you, like ticking clock faces. ‘Grow up, give up, you’re running out of time.’ But let me tell you something. When you wake up you’ll keep all this magic, On basement shelves, in clear crystal jars, and they’ll see it inside you too. You might hide it for a bit, but Don’t keep it away for too long. These thoughts are calling inside you, They pull your soul along lost pathways, Your heart over raging seas. So turn your cheek to the takers, Give up all your bright blinding words, Because you, the weird kids, are stronger than the rest. You’ll last longer, sing harder, Because it all means something to you.
  46. 2 points
    "It's the contrast of it," they say. "The narcissism and the breakdown, back to back, interchangeable. Let's you know it's still there." I shake my head. That is not me, I have the days of change. The weeks of swagger where I feel Goldilocks' 'just right' in my bones, two inches taller and settled into my skin. And there's the week's where I'm not, the ones where I feel eight years old and stuck with a newfound stammer. It's a slow, gentle kind of crushing. But then it's two months later and I'm braced against the bathroom sink, already crying from missing them, enough that salt is already pinching at my skin. I look up. And there, framed in the mirror covering the rusty medicine cabinet, is the prettiest thing I've ever seen. Pupils blown wide with the dark of two AM. Tears clumping eyelashes together like the exact opposite of good waterproof mascara, but so much better looking. A pretty redness to the lips, a little riper and more lusty red than that mixed in the cheek. Twas just the difference between the constant red and the mingled damask. There be some, Silvius, had they marked them in parcels as I did, would have gone near as to fall in love with them. The gender neutral Shakespeare is enough to distract me until I squint again. Because that, the image caught in the mirror, is me. I can't change it. There be some, Silvius, had they marked that in parcels as I did, would have gone near as to fall in love with it. But for mine own part, I love it not. Here I deviate from Phoebe: hate it, I do. But only numbly for now. I slouch again, tapping my nose lightly, trying to get feeling back in me. It's less like having a leg fall asleep, more like the cognitive trick where researchers stroke a rubber hand along with a subject's real one, until their brain feels them as one and the same. And then the researchers smash the rubber hand in with a hammer. I scratch at my nose until it goes red. I try different postures. Where I am right now makes me look like Gollum, even the wrinkles--still pink and new from crying squishing my face up--are there. I stand up confidently straight. My neck looks swanlike. A necklace model's, if it wasn't for the pimples and freckles. It curves down to my shoulders in a gentle slope. My collarbones look just as prim. I start crying again before I can find gross amounts of wrong in everything below that. The sobs don't feel shaky in the way the drop rides at the fair don't. The rise, rearing back, the pause, the plummet, repeat. It's not shaky because it's supposed to not be, it's breath-stealing because it is. So I scrub at my eyes and struggle through clumsy renditions of breathing exercises and try to find a happy medium of posture. Tall enough to feel like something more than a coward. Hunched enough to hide actuality. It lets me breathe again, so I take another counted series of breaths and blow my nose until the sides are red and raw from tissue, just as the tip still is from scratches. It looks cartoonish, unreal- Which feels right. I'm suddenly exhausted, which I don't mind, because I've been meaning to sleep for the past three hours. The 'contrast of it' finally wore me down, there art thou happy. I'm [positive my family heard my whimpering as I tried to stay standing soldier straight, daring my reflection to break first, so I'd feel less rumpled up, even as I was stretched out. But no one came to check and chat, there art thou happy. I blow my nose again. I avoid mirrors like a vampire hiding from the reality shift of them, which I can relate to. I curl up in bed until I'm just as hunched as before, but this time there's no lull of straightening up again, I can slouch in peace. There art thou happy. A pack of blessings light upon thy back, happiness courts thee in her best array. But, like a misbehaved and sullen wench, thou pout’st upon thy fortune. Take heed, take heed, for such die miserable. And the gender neutral Shakespeare is enough to distract me until I can sleep. ((this is pretty much just me getting out Emotions, and going like "haha this is Such a cliche feeling?? better think about shakespeare, bc THATS not CLECHE at ALL")
  47. 2 points
    I get all of that. But when dysphoria does attack (it's been coming less and less), I find that it helps to use it to combat my self-doubt. I tell myself "This is proof that I'm real. That I am who I say I am." God I love this.
  48. 2 points
    Thank you so much for your concern. I’m ok. I didn’t know her all that well (despite her being what I consider to be a formative piece of my love of theatre and thus a formative piece of my life) and she had cancer for three years before she died, so it’s not unexpected. I’ve been prepared for a while. So yeah, I’m alright. Thank you.
  49. 2 points
    Exactly! Thanks for that comparison, because I'm having trouble putting my feelings about this poem into words. I guess it's that the sense of emotion from the poem is so complicated and rich yet specific emotions aren't explicitly defined in the poem? Idk how to describe it but it's so beautiful?! Not to derail the conversation but I also really love the Mountain Goats and I was really happy to find another person on the interwebs who liked them too.
  50. 2 points
    I'm free from finals and actually able to critique/write things now, so here we go. Very therapist-y, very good. But I'd add "says" be fore "that I can tell her anything", because "asks ... that I can tell her anything" doesn't make much sense. I have some thoughts/suggestions about this bit. Personally, I feel that both name-checking Michelangelo and using a quote is more than you need. I think you could cut everything from "i'm just / a modern ... " to "that isn't" and jump straight into the quote, which I feel is made fully evident by the italics. (If people want to know who the quote's from, there's always the internet.) Which leaves you with something like this: That also makes the quote sound like your response to your therapist, which I think is an interesting twist on things. Possibly a little less clear than the original, though. (To be honest, I'm the deity of obfuscation, so you may not want to take my advice on this one.) Overall, wonderful poem. Thanks for sharing. :)
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