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Literature
disconnect.
your mouth is a pack of cigarettes 
you will smoke when i'm gone
your eyes are charcoal black.
in the dark
when you're fucking me,
they are pits.
i trip and fall into you again.
my body says yes
my mind says no
but my heart stays silent.
i am the space between galaxies,
far off and disconnected 
and my heart is a star gone supernova 
my body is lost to the milky way
but my mind is jupiter, stubborn and stoic
you are the novacaine i shouldn't have touched
and i am an addict now.
unplug this, we have gone too far.
our ocean minds reach around to lap at
words we have yet to fully understand;
like the ones you try on your lips
when you think i'm finally sleeping.
we think we want these things,
when its really just old habits.
:iconsetttingfire:setttingfire
:iconsetttingfire:setttingfire 0 0
Literature
paper airplanes and trainwrecks.
you fold into yourself again.
you were a secret i never meant to set flight to
your skin was poetry i wrote myself into.
a door i let myself through,
but dear, its so hard when you leave it wide open
and invite me in.
my stop sign has always read yield,
and you are so good at yielding.
you want love so badly 
you see it in the car-wreck corners of me
when we pass at a hundred miles per hour.
the crazy in my head derailed me that night
and our lips met like an accident,
leaving us like two casualties
and we sank 
like we knew what was to fall.
(she lived for so long inside my head
that her touch began to feel like home)
but i can't love you,
and you will learn to forget.
:iconsetttingfire:setttingfire
:iconsetttingfire:setttingfire 0 0
Literature
letters on leaving.
i wrote my first suicide letter in 10th grade.
they told me it didn't count if you felt like dying
unless you had it down on paper
like a vetoed birth certificate.
i've rewritten it enough times since
to realize i could never leave with a proper goodbye.
goodbye is too heavy a word for paper to hold
some words just know how to fall through paper.
and i way never brave enough for the kind of courage it takes to tell them
why.
why they weren't enough to keep me here.
i learned to wear death 
like rope burn my junior year.
my senior year we became friends
and i finally stopped cutting the insides of wrists.
i had learned how to go deep enough to count.
when i finally realized death never arrives on time,
i started smoking 
because somedays, a decade short sounds like a blessing.
mother always told me we reap what we sow.
:iconsetttingfire:setttingfire
:iconsetttingfire:setttingfire 2 4
Literature
hourglass.
you make mistakes 
like you will be able to forget them.
you live like you won't regret it.
you can only avoid what you've done for so long.
your morals are a boomerang
you threw at summer's start
when it returns,
don't catch.
let it bloody your nose
and recall the way memories linger like sap.
(you will wash and wash, but it will never come out)
turn the hourglass again,
depression is timely.
it will return like clockwork,
like a promise
to punish your sins.
:iconsetttingfire:setttingfire
:iconsetttingfire:setttingfire 1 0
Literature
the way things are.
the days add up like
spare change
and you turn yourself
inside out for someone again.
i found you chain-smoking in the rain last night
but my words dried up,
so we pulled up the blanket of silence 
and i tucked you away in my car and put
three hundred heavy miles between our fears.
:iconsetttingfire:setttingfire
:iconsetttingfire:setttingfire 1 0
Literature
honestly, get over yourself.
stop the car,
arrest your intentions.
we're going to need some paper towels
for all the shit you've been talking.
clear out your ears
mop up your eyes, dear,
we both know you don't mean it.
:iconsetttingfire:setttingfire
:iconsetttingfire:setttingfire 2 0
Literature
you.
you.
you are a staircase my heart cannot climb.
you are everything i wanted
and everything i cannot have.
we are two shades of blue, always clashing
we are two plugs trying to be a socket.
love, maybe my body
is just a one way street
and we keep turning wrong.
maybe, its a stop light we keep running.
because my head is a knot 
i can't untie
and even when my body says yes,
my head isn't sure
and my heart stays silent.
remember, i grew up saying yes.
so sometimes my yes is really no.
be careful what you ask of me
we are both too broken to shatter again,
(but maybe we like tipping the shelf too much)
my mouth is an ashtray i keep trying to rinse with yours
there is smoke in my lungs 
from all the empty lies i keep telling.
we are trapped in the bed we willingly laid down in.
trouble is,
you don't see it that way.
:iconsetttingfire:setttingfire
:iconsetttingfire:setttingfire 1 2

Favourites

Mature content
on sleeping with a friend :icondiddlyhohum:diddlyhohum 114 55
Literature
on firsts
I would often tell you that you
were the most beautiful woman
I ever saw. When I saw you in red lips,
I found it hadn't changed
at all.
As I told you this,
you flashed me a grin,
put a fist to your mouth
and dipped your chin. You said:
"Yeah, I was the first girl
but I wasn't the last.
If I know you
like I know you, despite the time
that's passed- you've said
it since, and you'll say it again."
You were right,
and you still are:
the fragile truth of my whims,
but
I never quite meant
it the way I did then.
:icondiddlyhohum:diddlyhohum
:icondiddlyhohum:diddlyhohum 26 18
Literature
october
you spit a girl
into this world:
a life of cluttered receipts
and missing keys.
and every year on this month she feels
she can organize-fix-overhaul herself.
her head entertains ideas of
blessings outweighing the disillusions
and you better wait
and give her all the time she needs.
it is her birthday.
you owe her this.
© 09.October.2013 :house:
:iconcristinewakesuphappy:cristinewakesuphappy
:iconcristinewakesuphappy:cristinewakesuphappy 11 10
Addict :iconribkadory:ribkaDory 618 18
Literature
principle
you are beautiful
in the way that sonnets are beautiful;
measured, exact,
expertly divulged little by little
(but somehow some poetry peeks through)
:icontoxic-nebulae:toxic-nebulae
:icontoxic-nebulae:toxic-nebulae 24 10
Literature
on getting to be honest
i wonder
if you were really drunk or not
when you called me. if that was
just an excuse when i asked you why,
if maybe that made it somehow
seem less strange after all this time.
i wonder
if you were telling the truth
about keeping everything i gave you.
except for my paintings, which you
admitted that you destroyed. i wonder
how often you take my poems out and
read them.
i wonder
why you asked me what my
warmest memory was of us.
i'd often dream of having
this conversation with you
a year ago, but it was too soon
and we were still in love but
we hated each other. i would have
said, 'the best memory i have of you
is you leaving.' which of course isn't
true. i threw up in an old hotel in
new york city when you left me. i wandered
the streets with a $14 pack of cigarettes
and wanted a man to see how lost i was
and talk me into selling my body, or giving
it.
-
i didn't answer your question,
but i had the answer, in my head.
i have written poems about it.
you said, 'do you want to marry hi
:icondiddlyhohum:diddlyhohum
:icondiddlyhohum:diddlyhohum 33 12
Literature
on clarity, seeing yourself as you are
we're all hypocrites here.
and we're all artists.
we paint ourselves
onto someone else like
it isn't painful for them,
like it isn't killing them
in the process. we give them
ownership of our failures,
we lay our flaws under their
tongues so when they speak,
more often than not, we hear
some distorted version of
ourselves. we expect them
to love the way we love. we expect
them to fight the way we fight. but yeah, we're
all fucking artists, right?
and we're all individuals, of course.
we're all on our brave, one-man
trip to enlightenment,
we're proud of the way
our word has been shaved
down to feelings, and moments,
mood swings, and oxy
off the bathroom sink.
well i can't be the only fucking
one who's tired of being an artist.
i can't be the only one tired
of seeing my skin stretched out over
everyone i know. i am tired of watching
my reflection shimmer and fade in their
smiles, in their wrath. i am tired of becoming
silver in one moment only to tarnish in the
next. i am tired of asking
:icondiddlyhohum:diddlyhohum
:icondiddlyhohum:diddlyhohum 75 20
Literature
on fueling the fire with your own spit
you are so gorgeous, janie,
and do not let anyone
tell you different. okay?
okay, janie?
okay?
okay, gradie. what
you do not know, baby,
is that outside of your arms
i want to die a thousand small
deaths because the world is too much
when you leave me so empty. what you do
not know is that outside of your arms all my
senses are brightened because you just lit them.
what you do not know is that outside of your arms these
waters are rising and i am not treading the levee walls carefully.
i welcome my tragedy and its ecstasy.
:icondiddlyhohum:diddlyhohum
:icondiddlyhohum:diddlyhohum 26 12
Literature
The Day She Disappears
It is the day she discovers
she has ears
but no mouth.
She realizes that she said nothing
but in her imagination, the words between
her ears never escaped.
It is the day she discovers
she cried every tear allotted to her
for this lifetime.
She thinks of her brother trapped,
a life-long night terror, imagines fish
nibbling ashen remains, her father
in the lakebed, her father as a spiral,
her family as an old treehouse on fire,
blasted by lightning.
She feels a hysteria build in her brain,
the swarm of wasps rage.
The eroded ridges of her cheeks never fill.
Her eyes don't even shine,
two desert oases forgotten by the rain.
The wasps fly in and out, bringing paper
bits of leaves to create a nest inside
her brain. They lay eggs.
Feed the wiggle white larvae
pieces of grey matter,
all the wrong memories.
Wasp nests never slumber.
She can't either.
It is the day she discovers  
time will not heal the double-barrel
shotgun wound she's taken to the stomach, 
as she shovels her intestines
back
:iconaMidnightMasquerade:aMidnightMasquerade
:iconamidnightmasquerade:aMidnightMasquerade 22 10

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setttingfire
United States
we are the wild/we are the reckless youth
setting fire/ to our insides for fun

20/pan/writer/long boarder/dancer/photographer

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