I love you from your head to waistie
From your waist to toesie
Can't you see that my heart does showsie
A new light shines
on the putrid
Former chapter of
with head held high
and heart kept warm
Darling, I am not here to write about your eyes and the stars in them. I tried to count too many times and I got too lost in the dreams imbedded in your corneas. I'm not here to talk about how the sun only rises because you give it a reason to, because it still sets every evening so it doesn't have to hear your steady breathing while you sleep. I'm here to tell you about how you have words that cut me like a saw cuts bone and how my ribs are held together with cheap twine and my spine is duct taped together. Here to say that you make my heart race at a pace that my body cannot keep up with. I didn't come to tell you that the tides are kissing the shore every time you laugh, because that's not what your laugh is like. No, if the rusting of iron made a sound, it would be your laugh. There are no flowers woven in your hair - instead, there are hornets and their nests lay settled in your throat and your intention is to sting me every time you open your mouth to say something that isn't my name. This isn't about poetry I've read about the moon and the sun and the cosmic loneliness of every star despite the presence trillions of them in the same sky. This is about how some stars find your presence so alluring that they begin to tumble from the sky and this is what we wish upon. This is about bruised lips mumbling words carved into coffee tables and bloody fingers tracing the rim of your favorite coffee cup. This isn't about love. This is about you.
I am leaving myself open again
for all to dwell in my private domain
I myself did not want this
but I have two choices by command
Here I go naked into the world
showing my heart and persona
and I am somewhat apprehensive
this burst could be very expensive
Yet on the other hand
why dream a dream
why feel this is right
just do it and write
I have many stories that should be told
to the poets of good and to the poets of old
let me show you grim tales of despondency
and tales of goodness and humanity
By Christos Andreas Kourtis aka NeonSolaris
I was riding high until some thoughts passed by.
Saw a few pictures and memories flooded the very limited space in my head
Levees feel like they're about to break through tear ducts, yet still afraid to cry.
Very sensitive connections kept us together.
You couldn't speak English, but still spoke through your action
Came by my side during storms that I could not weather.
Sometimes I took your companionship for granted
Often not investing thought in the moment.
Stood by me, even when life.. I couldn't stand it
Anytime I was home, you made me conscious of your calls
Whenever I was in my own bed you made sure to join me
It's as if now, without you, I'm getting withdrawls.
The week I house sat for my mom, will remain with me always
Laying on the floor depressed, not only because you were dying
Still get choked up, knowing we showed each other love, before your next phase
Weeks later after I moved, I woke up in Nevada thinking "where'd Austin go?"
I swear I felt you, and thought you were there, even though it may've not made sense
Know you're still in my heart, and were always so blissfully pleasant to hold.
You were the one cat I knew that would actually just into my arms from the floor, on command.
You held on, never scared as if you didn't wanna let go
Literally wrapped your paws around my neck in a hug-like embrace, or should i say - little hands.
I miss you buddy, and the feelings haven't changed.
Some may think caring this much about an animal is strange.
Truth is we're all animals, and I'll see you at the next stage <3
If my tears fall from my Manchuria face
onto the white pillows, as you leave
do you think I would forget you
would these tears be for you
Those times you told me
told me of your love for me
yet here I cry on silken pillows
as my heart that you promised
You made me your vengeful princess
and father I will make a bee line to you
I can't wait for you to feel sisterhood
and all that motherhood can do
Let the gentle winds kill my hate
for what is the point of hating
should not love kind and pure
fill the hearts of all the just who endure
By Christos Andreas Kourtis aka NeonSolaris
Fuck you for making me feel like this.
Fuck you for placing my legs under a microscope, X100 magnification and carefully peering at their relative sizes
Then fuck you also for proceeding to tell me I need to measure the circumference of my thighs weekly and write it down so the looming numbers will scare me away from that last piece of bundt cake in the fridge,
all the time acting as if you are giving me a valuable, sage insight on the pursuits of human happiness
Fuck you for turning me into a 15-point lab report due monday.
I mean, are you fucking stupid?
I do happen to own a mirror.
You are just so damn blinded by your self-proclaimed "good inentions."
How can you not see that all I want is to be tiny?
That the one thing I crave, desire, yearn, for above all else,
more even than to be loved and successful,
is to be petite.
to not feel my thighs softly scrape against eachother when I wear skirts
to not hear the way clothes strain over my hips, how they positively groan over all my imperfections.
To simply not,
to be less.
To feel less.
I catch unexpected glances of myself in the mirror and I am instantly and irrevocably consumed with the notion that I must cut and cut all the squishy places away until nothing remains but blood, muscle, and my own shredded skin.
I shame myself.
ordering my heart not to shrink when it peeks at all the fat surrounding it.
I insist that, it's stupid,
letting a few extra grams of CH3(CH)2COOH be significant enough to make me want to curl up in a dark corner and cry for weeks and sob out every last extra particle of water and fat until I'm thin.
Until I am perfect.
But thanks anyway for pointing out my weight gain,
aren't you such a doll?
Wow, I mean
what an act of sincere kindness!
next time I get a pimple or a stretch mark,
remind me to call you.
Because in a world where appearances are everything
Who doesn't need to be reminded that they aren't beautiful enough to matter?
every achy bone inside me a relic
of the former self still inhabiting this shell.
exquisite fossils of the life once lived
my silhouette, housed in rock,
yet the softest part of me rotted out.
the vacancy in my expression
mirrors the hollowed out spaces
between each rib and every "what if"
my lungs carry haunted cries
apparitions you forged in my memory
phantom fingers singed the word
“remember” into my paper skin.
i am still smoldering.
chambers of my heart filled with cobwebs;
every strand of silk an unfulfilled wish.
we are still tangled up.
the spiders have crawled from our throats
but the dust is settling.
your fingers have intertwined
with the segments of my spine,
fists taking root in my chest, cradling a stone heart.
knuckles bent comfortably around each vertebrae,
your hands are cold.
the weight of all my sins is crushing me,
i suppose i should have noticed
when you read the lines in my palm like an obituary.
- m.f. & j.a
The embers died and I extinguished every burning flame with my breath
The fire inside me glowed so brightly I could not see,
and the flickering candle-lit lanterns of my eyes brimmed with water
and the roaring blaze inside me died
I inhaled smoke trying to reignite what once thrived
my nicotine lips smelt like ash and my heart was a burnt out cinder
I washed the smell of smoke from my fingertips
the same fingertips that fires used to lick and nibble,
caressing the skin that held a furnace within
Nothing but smoke and ash left inside me now
And blackened lungs from years of fueling the very object that would be my demise
I drowned in a flood created by my own weak self
it washed away my sins, yes, but I was made entirely of sins
and now I am a hollowed out shell of the bonfire I used to be
I was engulfed in a shower of tears that diminished the essence of my being
Now I am nothing but ash and cigarette smoke.
Darling, I'm afraid I've broken the coffee maker again.
Darling, I'm afraid that all the orange bottles are empty again.
Darling, I'm afraid that sometimes walls remind me
of either the ones you threw me against or the ones I put up around my heart
so that no one can love me ever again.
Darling, I'm afraid that I don't see stars in the sky anymore,
just a lot of eyes staring down at me,
scrutinizing me like interstellar councilmen,
knowing about every disgusting thing that I have done
when I thought it was just me and you and the peeling wallpaper.
Darling, I'm afraid that I am woven around your ribcage
like the beads of a rosary
are wrapped around the fingers of a sinner who has sold their soul
to the devil for forgiveness from God
one too many times.
Darling, I'm afraid I have to pause to talk about your fingers.
I am not wrapped around just one, but all of them.
I was hoping to bind you like a book so I could read you a little better,
but I'm afraid I've just entangled myself in a giant mess
and I'm afraid that you're a little too amused by my demise.
Darling, I'm afraid that guns shoot and so do stars,
I'm afraid that wishbones break and so do bones,
and I'm afraid that feathers float and so do bodies.
Darling, I'm afraid that I'm sorry that I cannot fix you,
because I don't think I can even fix myself.
Darling, I'm afraid I'm just