#demulder
we no longer achieve
intimacy by
peeling off our
skin like the band aid
that will sting as it is torn away.
intimacy is the art
of feeling like a monument torn apart,
hoping no one will tear you down
to create a better
you.
i have become depressed-
repressing all the love i have to give
if only i could shed my shadows
and remember we are only flesh.
i don’t remember
how to be intimate.
Nov 17, 2014
Nov 17, 2014 at 2:17 PM UTC
She is the plane you are crashing.
The rusting, dusty ex-service plane
that you took on and rebuilt.
Inch
by
inch
she improved.
You did not merely add a lick of paint, making her glow
whilst her engine only rotted further.
You dug deep to the root of the problem and
once you were done you flew her
up,
up,
up,
and higher.
She is the plane you are crashing
She is spiralling down whilst onlookers frown
and murmur and comment
on the bullet shaped holes in the fuselage.
Yet they did not look close enough and failed to see
the absence
of the most important component to a healthy, working plane.
Further inspection of the flaming cockpit reveals the
replaced buttons and stickers,
now covered in safety measures of no use.
If you press the wrong button
this creature will explode
around you and
for everybody to see.
They will point and they will laugh.
They will point the finger of blame.
Yet nobody thinks to question the absence of the most important component to a healthy, working plane.
Nobody thinks to question the absence of the pilot.
The pilot of the plane he was crashing.
Aug 25, 2015
Aug 25, 2015 at 10:10 PM UTC
"She is the souvenir shop that He visits to remember how much people will miss him when He's gone."
She cries so often that She runs out of tears and the sobs escape her in the form of red disappointment that streams from her tiny little-girl wrists. She is the nothing but a landmark. She is the band-aid that He uses to feel beautiful after He is told that He is not. She is the thread that holds his ego together at the expense of her own. And every time She undresses for him, She knows that He is thinking of you. Because, when they're in bed, He's touching her, wishing She was you, and She's touching him wishing He was anyone else. And they're both just anesthetics to fill each other up with a feeling of nothing because somehow, that's better than any type of something. And He never says "I love you" in person, because She knows that He only loves her from shoulders to ankles, no hair in between, ditch the bra and ******* let that Brazilian fall in waves down her chocolate back as She gives him more and more of herself. But then He does say "I love you" it's only when He's still inside her; still a part of her; still taking from her. He'll say he loves her. He'll say it again and again and again. Like a prayer. Like a lamentation. And as He finishes for what was supposed to be the final time, She'll fall apart. Glass trinkets will fall to the floor, tumbling from the decrepit shelves of her heart and shatter all around them for his love of broken things. Like her. And He'll leave.
Nov 6, 2015
Nov 6, 2015 at 4:20 PM UTC