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 Jun 2013 Ben
Sarina
bloodstone
 Jun 2013 Ben
Sarina
I do not imagine suicide as impulsive,
rather the day I wake up and travel thousands of miles
in my thoughts
to tell everything I have inhabited goodbye.

Nature will have the instinct to swallow my skin
in its blanket, the breeze whispers
to my boyfriend that I love him anyway.

A crew of mushrooms shall lay me on their breast or
beneath their umbrellas as in a rabbit hole

and upon lying down, petals spill
across my tired eyelids, and the breeze murmurs
that it is okay: I will not be missed because I will have
nature holding my bones the entire time.

She is there, playing my hair like a harpsichord,
whisking me away.
 Jun 2013 Ben
Sammie wells
We are all beautiful,  
we may not be everybody's beautiful...
but we are always somebody's beautiful.

(SW)
 Jun 2013 Ben
Odi
The law said her body was made for love
The kind of love that wants to show you
just how much it loves you
by sticking things inside of you

hard
fast

Then slower

The kind of love that wanted to make the bible blush
make you quiver; the
kind of love when you put a female and male hamster together.
The kind of love that wanted to make music out of your ******

Love said "This is what happens
when you use
Needles to ingrain the words love
on peoples skin"

It feels a lot like pain did

Like when the first boy you ever loved
said I love you back
And proved it because he held you after
sticking sticky things inside of you
Like how he said hed wait untill you were ready
then said "You're gonna make me wait forever.."

How that guy on the third date said
"Come back to my apartament
So I can put what I want into you
Until you are empty
Because we might call it love"

Until you met a boy
who untaught what the word love meant
never asked you when you wanted to have ***
whose hands never roamed as greedily
searching for places to settle on your body
who didnt wish to make a home out of you by filling you senseless
and calling it his furniture
art
who traced outlines of constellations on the palms of your hands
and played
"Guess the Nebula"

Whose hardness never prodded you in the back
like a protest
in the early morning
whose breath always came easy
never hard
or fast

It was just holding you with no intention to
*******

He said
"Love isnt what you put inside a person
In hopes of making it stick;and naming it after something beautiful
I can pin my thoughts on you but
you are not my canvas. That wouldnt be fair.
I respect your property."

There was nothing broken when he left.
 Jun 2013 Ben
Morgan
Cry Wolf
 Jun 2013 Ben
Morgan
After he died, I spent two and a half years in my bed. The doctors said I was depressed. I think I was just tired.
I rose out of that coffin of satin sheets with a lot of coffee and some diet pills. I didn't climb back in for six months. The doctors said I was an insomniac. I think I was just pensive.
I eventually fell back in with too much Lunesta and some cough syrup. I finally started having dreams again but I couldn't decievere them from my reality. The doctors said I had severe anxiety. I think I just had a good imagination.
I cut until my bones ached. They called me suicidal but I think I was just bored.
I drank until my insides began to drown. They called me an alcoholic but I think I was just thirsty.
I stopped eating until my ribs stuck out. They called me anorexic but I think I was just lazy.
I said I ******* loved you. I said I'd always miss you. I said I really needed you. You thought I was just messed up & confused. But I think I saw you holding the rope that could pull me out of rock bottom.

Well heyyyy, what I think
never really matters anyway.
 Jun 2013 Ben
Edgar Whitman Wilde
so many faces, so many faces
disfigured lives in hushed tones of living
find  they have no choice
and with eyes discoloured
yet not blind destroy the flowers that bloom
they recognise the work of the infernal serpent
in Miltonian affirmation of a stranger
and a more deadly disfigurement
than that which like sun baked clay
bears its cracks in the haunting of lives
with a medieval gargoylian curse
to becomes the orphans
of nothing, except everything
and ask how does this equate
with so many faces
faces that are struggling for
the paradise to be regained
for the infernal serpent to be slain  
so many faces, so many faces
 Jun 2013 Ben
Alexsandra Danae
Who is this? This melancholy, lusterless, sad-eyed girl?
Sitting there, in an anguished silence, only hollowly responsive
Perplexed and dismayed by the qualms this life has rapidly unfurled
A heartbroken, lonely ghost of a woman, stripped of all treasures she wished to give
 
Who is to blame? Who forced her to board that otherwise lifeless train?
When it reaches its final stop (the end of the line...) fault shall be hung on what sorry name?
As this girl steps out on to the platform, destination-less, cold and soggy in the rain
To whom might she raise her finger, pointing out the wretched being who first began this ****** game?
 
What if an ugly truth, her answer, is a monster, too hideous to stand and face?
Might she recognize the feet that carried her, each of the steps past, leading to present grounds?
Or perhaps she'll cling to denials, fearing her sins too heavy to be lifted through grace
And regardless, what of hopes, acceptance and loves still hiding? For this girl, could they yet be found?
 
I watch while she sits, waiting vainly for some resolution; her guiding light to come take her away
Of my presence she seems unaware, and I've seen her eyes fill up behind a quiet blink, then spill
In those moments, I cry as well, and beg of God to take the chains from her soul, let her lovely spirit again play
Left to hold her own reigns of mercy and faith, her hands will create the misery-rope she'll eventually be hanged with and killed...
 
We are the same, but divided ourselves; split into two fractured pieces of one broken whole
I've held on, held out for her, yet she's all but forgotten me
And I'll never let go, because that tormented, splintered heart inside of her is a piece of me that she stole
So I'll pray, plead, console, call out to her, for without her acknowledgement of herself, we'll never be one again; we will never be free
 Jun 2013 Ben
wolf mother
your fractured wrist beckons slowly to the pinky
carefully moonlight denies your pleas
can you see what it's done to you
the bugs are whispering
break his knees
did i say i loved you once
underneath the willow, examining a fallen twig
did i look up at the light and tell you you were golden and green

i didn't find the answers to your questions that summer or the one after that
my words are barren
a glass desert


and i'm sorry i don't know how to love after the battles have been won
when it's not unrequited
when you're finally within reach

i'm sorry i become a ***** shell
a wordless mouth
a quiet stare, making noises between the ears
never loud enough to hear
 Jun 2013 Ben
wolf mother
?
 Jun 2013 Ben
wolf mother
?
can i lie awake in the sadness of your broken hand?

can i call you up when i find the band aids are contaminated by childhood dares?

I don't know if i can call you mine with a care
like I had in those julys, sleeping there
hair intertwined
carnivorous and bare

can i say your name in the stillness of the fire while they laugh in awe at my gracelessness?

is it fair?

do they know it has always been there?
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