Take every second
of my skin
Rolling beneath your fingertips
Give every breath
of your shine
To the dark empty places within
Hate every one
in a million
Paper cranes creased by unsteady hands
Love every time
the snow falls
Frozen memories intact with every drop
Jun 27, 2018
Jun 27, 2018 at 11:47 AM UTC
They always sing about
The kinds of eyes they drown in
But you
And your candy cane smile
Licorice lashes and tearstained cheeks
You never seemed an ocean to me
Behind your every shadow stood your fire
Of a volcano
No, not the kind
That erupts and destroys
But the dormancy and the promise
Of destruction, instead
As sweet as
All our hidden lies
Jun 14, 2018
Jun 14, 2018 at 11:35 AM UTC
*i want to write
so many love letters
and sappy poems
but i'm afraid
that with no one
to send them to
i've forgotten how
like the leaves forget
to hold on to their promises
once fall has come
to take them away*
Aug 27, 2017
Aug 27, 2017 at 12:11 PM UTC
the sky
cried heavily
in her pain,
that night
even the moon
hid behind
dark skies
and grieved
with the rain,
the whole universe
attended the funeral
of her heart,
as she buried
in silence
all that
what had become
from her apart.
- n. ib
Jul 30, 2017
Jul 30, 2017 at 4:59 PM UTC
I am so in love
with the idea of normal
That it is so ******* sick
And you,
with your shiny, naive smile,
Are the epitome of untainted
And it makes me want to *****
how desperately
I crave to push you to the edge
To push you as far as I can
and see
If you will crumble to ashes in my hands
Or perhaps you will trip off the abyss
and try
To drag me down to hell with you
But hell is the domain
that I call my own
One I have been praying to sink back into
And I am so in love
with the idea of normal
And I don't want to say that it isn't you
Because it is you
with your wonderfully ordinary concerns
None of which have to do with the voices
Private voices
sweet voices
Incorporeal people I keep locked in my head
These thoughts
are ones you'll never have
And I am so in love with the idea of normal
That I've been sick dozens of times
simply from the thought
That I might be in love with you
Jul 23, 2017
Jul 23, 2017 at 2:37 PM UTC
If I were not a person who dealt in words
the same way others dealt in currency
(or maths
or measures
or facts
or any number of infinitely more practical things)
If I were not a person who breathed in the flow of letters against pages
and thoughts against spaces
I would never love an artist
because no matter the medium of the life
cra
wl
in
g
beneath their skin
No matter if they hear notes in the flip of her hair
(or paint galaxies of the breath against her cheeks
or create worlds hinged on his fallen eyelash
or build monuments to his unguarded laughter
or sway to whatever melody her eyes serenade beyond flickering boredom)
no matter the medium they substitute for the oxygen they inhale
Their hearts
do not exist
—cannot—
outside of the muse they substitute
to pump their passions through their veins
And if I were not a person who dwelt between the strokes of the letters
and devoured the length of meters
I would never love an artist
because their lives are forever forfeit to their muse
sold, clapped in heavy irons
to a desert oasis you cannot reach
because you cannot be his muse, if he has notched you onto his belt
For an artist would never endanger his muse, no matter if he loved her
(or worshipped her
or tortured her
or reveled in her
or whatever multiple definition love has contracted)
If I were not a person who knew the woes of seeing more
than what the world might first offer
But I am.
And I understand.
And I would never love an artist
For I belong to my muse and so does he
and She demands
that no competition come from the love
She allows me
outside Her chamber doors
and an artist's brilliance is competition indeed
And I can only ever love an artist
who
might
forgive
And who might understand
If I told her she is my muse no longer
May 24, 2017
May 24, 2017 at 5:46 AM UTC
Nightmare (*noun;
no longer the monster under the bed*)
She wonders when exactly they'd left the dwelling of her bedroom walls, haunting her every step as she forces a multitude of expressions on her face to distract others from the shadows pooling beneath her easy smile.
Boiling (*verb;
emotion beyond comprehension*)
She watches the water bubble beneath the surface with panic; she isn't sure when the last time her fingertips had felt warmer than negative degrees anymore.
Beautiful (*adjective;
just another lie*)
She stares, fascinated, at the skin that grows tauter on her face each day, the hollows beneath her cheeks, the ribs splayed against her bare torso, the unsteady waver in her eyes, and she wonders if she should find them disgusting—she doesn't think she does.
Violently (*adverb;
unhealthy*)
She covers her ears as someone screams at the sight of her and she grips even tighter when she realizes the sound is coming from herself.
Suffocation (*noun;
to die or to be killed)*
She forces death down her throat as her future veers toward the only path she never wanted and the only choice left to her now.
Grating (*verb;
the sound of nails on chalkboards*)
She wakes to a knock on her door and blood beneath fingers that tremble as she turns the **** to peek around at the landlady telling her she'd gotten another complaint of the scraping sounds coming from her room at midnight.
Silent (adjective;
)
She's learned to do things quietly now so she doesn't disturb her neighbors or her colleagues or her family; she isn't sure why they aren't bothered by her demons, though.
Endlessly (*adverb;
again and again and again and againandagainandagainandagain*)
She can barely count nowadays how many times she's thought of and tried and came so very close before (oh, but she could if she tried; each attempt is very memorable, of course), and she rubs her hands raw on the coarse rope over and over again—maybe, just maybe, this time she'll do it.
Maybe this time she'll take the easy way out after all.
Jan 8, 2017
Jan 8, 2017 at 12:10 PM UTC