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cher Dec 2018
day through night, i face the same fate
my flesh inches closer to its expiry date.

a hell:
my mind is at its limit,
and my body; no longer mine.

each minute goes by, i pray to gods,
every holy name, those i've never heard of,
pray, pray with all my might -
choose a different girl to feast on tonight.

my face was stolen from a world of debris
to support a family i'll never again see
i sold myself, let me be bought,
for just two coins, a price of naught.

a customer.
i tell myself,
don't open your eyes,
don't move a muscle.

hands on my thighs - deja vu
my body to her is just revenue.

memories of every night still live within my body - a bookmark telling me i'll never be my own. a constant image of flesh flickers behind my eyelids every time i close my eyes.

give me my body back.
i'm working on my gcse drama devised piece and it's being recorded in two days - ours is on slavery and i got the *** trade as my scene. we gotta write monologues, so i decided to write mine as a poem because of course i did.
cher Oct 2018
every time you touch me
the skin blanketing me screams,
  a babe newly out the womb.
only air - no sound escapes -
in breaths
breaths
panting breaths!

  just                fingertips
          grazing
     now
                they climb,
         venturing
    to
  unexplored     curves.

every time you touch me
you leave invisible singes glow;
  a masochistic craving for more.
wanton wanting, eager to please
in exchange for pleasure.

your flavour dribbles
spiralling pirouettes across our tongues.
  now, not now, and now.

! l i v e    i n    t h e   m o m e n t !

for you know this moment
will soon be mere memory,
  replayed, looping a single track.
the scene that plays behind your eyelids
      as the curtains fall before slumber.

enjoy and savour his touch;
every time you touch me
vines intertwine between my toes
     flames burn the nape of my neck.
curl, curl, curl, writhe,
a gurgle of a moan.

a rarity of intimacy,
the time of now comes not.
  it's back to the waiting room,
doodling in a notepad,
solving sudoku problems
in the back of my mind.
procrastinate the longing,
begging is desperation.

sickly, the wait invigorates,
a catalyst of passionfruit!
i have no idea what this mess is but i know i miss my boyfriend OH MY GOD
cher Aug 2018
acting on a stage,
she builds with each step,
step,
    step,
        stepping,
the floorboards trail behind her feet.
they form from the soil,
the earth breathing beneath,
wooden planks sprouting between her toes.

she sings in a voice strained and trained,
her diaphragm strong and core
rumbling in single breaths.

her skin brushed with pigment,
cheeks tinted rouge and lips scrubbed till pain,
gold-dusted on her bones
rays reflecting and blinding from her beauty.

stomach she ***** in,
twenty-four
seven,
always prim and proper,
a perfect specimen of femininity,
her blood flows in a viscosity unique
only to the elite.

fingers down
but she lacks words to throw up,
she's silent,
an empty vessel,
her lips meant to be a two-way gate
but nothing flows either way.

her skin sunkissed turmeric,
her irises tapioca pearls,
hair flowing and falling from her face
toasted nori on the white rice her dress.

daily rehearsals of sixteen
odd years practicing lines;
memorizing them, repeating internally,
the stage she builds like a church
her loves oppose to the act,
but she builds an antidisestablishment
forcing her audience of parishioners
away from her.
[ T R I G G E R    W A R N I N G ]
my friend challenged me to use the words viscosity and antidisestablishmentarianism and so i made this boi
cher Jul 2018
no

not love

not of that sort

the dissatisfaction that overwhelms
overwhelms your soul,
your mind,
your being,
when your body be a traitor;
when it retracts a sneeze from your grasp.

it's a crescendo of buildup! anticipation!
that cadence you so physically crave
your body aches
begs the deities that be
to let you have that ******* release.

but alas,
you were betrayed.
i needed to sneeze
cher Jul 2018
honey dippers.
just pretentious costumes,
pretending sticks have purpose.
those
grooves not to dance to a rhythm
but to capture processed nectar within,
bee *****,
and i swear it's a ploy, this amber syrup is
merely viscous saccharine *******, i'll say;
****, man.
this sphere on your bottom, for what, friction
in my tea? so unnecessarily capitalised on,
money
wasted on useless instruments of delicacy.
why not a spork? such a versatile beauty,
she can
scoop and gauge, stab and seppuku,
that gorgeous beast at one with
gods! culinary nature!!
honey dippers.
all they do,
collect,
scoop,
collect,
drizzle,
collect,
scoop,
collect,
dr­izzle,
collect,
scoop,
collect,
drizzle,
collect,
scoop,
collect,­
drizzle,
collect,
scoop,
collect,
drizzle,
collect,
scoop,
collect,
drizzle,
collect,
scoop,
endlessly;
there's no other
purpose; showing
that we're too afraid
to touch the ***** ****
ourselves. hypocritical
behaviour, humans.
hypocritical.
idk my friend gave me the prompt 'those wooden things for honey' and i very obviously deviated from the subject matter. whoops. i'm sorry, sam.
cher May 2018
He,
standing on my doorstep,
         it is only
He             who i open the door for.

He    steps in,     standing
     n o n c h a l a n t.
i offer,
offer to Him scalding tea
     with poisoned biscuits.

His fingers  taper
tapering to            claws,
claws that run along my collar
    collarbones

undoing my collar,
undoing my buttons down,
  d
       o
              w
                            n
and o! He unclasps the fishing hooks
where He wounded me                      so long ago,
the once open gashes now
      scars! scars! keloids and scars!

fear, fearing, i feared,
i knew He would be disgusted,
my impure skin, with bUmPs
and so many im pur ities,
      no longer am i blank,
blank slate,
                extra ****** olive oil to sear with.

and still, He ravages my flesh,
the flesh with purpose
purpose to summon Her,
      life.

He rips my insides, allowing
wilting, withering away,
    losing first blood was so long ago.
  the last i bled a month ago,
                  yet i need not fear fertility.

He is welcome,
He is here!
He uses me,
eats me,
inside me,
becomes one with me,
and then
He leaves.

His next visit i await.
speed wrote this in twenty minutes for a creative writing prompt in the form of a poem title in english class because i'm still just a lowly highschool student who wants an a* on their english gcse
cher Apr 2018
because it is so mundane,
and o! lord, the shame.
me sitting here,
the anti revere;
for i sit in chairs of boredom,

i'm surrounded by books,
and muted crooks and look!
an endless queue;
a line-- tapping shoes,
far from my chairs of boredom,

"well, why don't you, pathetic and blue
just go do something else?"
well you see,
though i must agree,
i'm bound to my chairs of boredom,

i'm drowning in this hoodie
as i'm far from a beauty.
yet i still type on,
attention gone!
because i'm chained to these chairs of boredom,

i asphyxiate and choke
on carbon monotonous smoke
"she's asthmatic
and pathetic"
as i swallow in chairs of boredom,

a telegram delivered
as i unfolded it i shivered
to see that sight
a dangerous plight
my little chairs of boredom,

and mayb
i have no idea man i'm sitting in the school library cause i don't wanna go home but i also have nothing to do so here. i have no idea as to what any of this means.
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