"subtitles" poems
Yesterday
Was in the ecstasy
Of realizing that
We were
Those two
On earth
Who liked bitter gourd curry
Cooked with coconut milk ….
Remember?
Think it was
In the sixth life.
We were
Two nascent bitter guards
On the pandal
Spread in the northern corner
Of the farmland
Belonging to a grandmother
In a village in Mississippi
Who used to attend to the orchards
Sitting in a wheelchair.
We had
Watched earth
And peeked
At the sky
Hanging from the same stalk
The scar left
From your tight clasp on my thigh
Scared
After spotting a double tailed pest
Is still there.
The pleasure of that pain
Makes me tearful now.
I am like the faces
In the house of deceased
Sobbing
At times
Bursting into tears
The next moment
Holding back
After a while.
Sometimes
I am all the faces
In the house of the dead
Tears have
Nothing to do with them.
Sometimes
The wedding house
Will laugh and laugh
Till its cheeks hurt.
Just like you.
My dear bitter guard,
When will we
Go back to that
Pandal in Mississippi
Where we had pulsated
From a single stalk?
Aren’t we the ones
To offer obsequies
To that grandmother
Who looked after us
With pots
Of wholehearted love?
Translator - Shyma P
Shyma P : Works in Payyanur College, Payyanur. Translator and film critic. Has translated poems and articles in Malayalam Literary Survey, The Oxford India Anthology of Malayalam Dalit Literature, online magazines like Gulmohar, Readleaf Poetry as well as scripts and subtitles for short films.
Dec 15, 2015
Dec 15, 2015 at 8:43 PM UTC
I talk in commas and periods,
you talk in italic subtitles.
Sep 11, 2015
Sep 11, 2015 at 8:02 PM UTC
The theater's empty and I can't seem to figure why,
The ground feels like a sticky, but hard lie,
It's plain with drapes to a darkened heaven,
With movie posters that make me nostalgic for when I was 7,
Or was it 11?
The projector starts to warm up,
And the ghosts in the machine show who they wanted to be,
This popcorn reminds me of a love that was wearing her favorite leather jacket,
Holy **** how did I get popcorn?
The screen shows ads for ****** ****
But its in Spanish with Czech subtitles ,
And a weird sense of accomplishment,
Seems to give way with the images, now gone,
Apparently I have a soda that I have never noticed nor engaged or enraged,
Blue stills of ****** knees and beaches unbeknownst to any future,
With the credits rolling of names I'll remember, forget and lie remembering
A calming anxiety seems to fill in where the smoke creeping oot the vents does not,
The teleporting popcorn comes with me,
And choose to leave, with the seat,
I seem to forget to ask myself,
meow so clear,
How did I get here?
Jul 9, 2015
Jul 9, 2015 at 10:55 AM UTC
I am alone with you.
A fire burns in the distance
It lights our faces
As before in the empty cinema,
Where we arrived, at some beginning
To watch a foreign film. Our eyes,
In new utterance, murmuring subtitles,
What words could never speak
The tips of seats, rows of air
And the moony screen,
A tableau of feathers and cloud
Two of us, alone, as one
Rapt in the spread of wings.
Later, alone we dine in the Café
Campagne. Our conversation
Deafens a burgeoning crowd
Coffee was nectar, our words
Were whispering petals.
Dearest Blodeuwedd, I saw the sweetest
Sorrow on your face, the green ocean
In your eyes, I was cleansed
By your tears. I have always
Known you.
Across the border on the far island,
You stepped into the waters with me
And when you disrobed you lit the stars
And the stars and my eyes kissed your skin
Your slender legs, columns that taught
The Greeks in Helens age, touched the water
And the sky. I saw the milky way that night.
Síneánn, I am your Pablo
We are two white birds sailing
Over the foam of the sea.
Solvent to my stone you are the hinge
To my casement world. Rain petal
Voice, lithe, alabaster woman,
I am lost in your Sargasso eyes
I hold your skin, my Selkie
Sweet Niamh, I have lived
One hundred years this week.
It is warm in the distance
In the country of the sun
We end at the house in Umbria
In the autumn, there is no word
Siberia, my light Rosaleen.
Now is harvest time.
At the great table we feast
With family and friends
And I am not alone with you.
Jun 3, 2012
Jun 3, 2012 at 2:32 AM UTC
A Woman of Many Words
I am a Woman of Many Words
I am drawn to all those places
That words congregate:
Libraries and bookstores
Road signs and billboards
Ticket stubs and subtitles
Nametags and license plates
Each one a journey driving inside me
I am a Woman of Many Words
I love the way the shapes feel in my mouth
The skittle taste of syllables
I am drawn to especially long words
With their phonetic entities stretching out like tentacles to reach new corners of pronunciation
Words like
Bibliophile and flippant-irreverence
Evanescent and Insouciance
Mellifluous and Effervescent
Mondegreen and Labyrinthine
Words like
Onomatopoeia and Tintinnabulation
I appreciate their weight on my tongue
The way my hands appreciate the thickness that is a fat book
I am a Woman of Many Words
I am attracted to their multitude
The space their figures take up on a page
The calligraphic punches
Typed up by keys
The carefully constructed
Brush strokes
Spouting
What is sure to be, nonsense
But I do enjoy the sound of nonsense in the morning
I am a Woman of Many Words
I cling to the lettered skyscrapers wherever I can find them
Because the familiar scent of scribbles across parchment is comfort food for me
I find them
On the backs of cereal boxes
And in Popsicle riddles
In fortune cookies
And alphabet soup
From magnets on my fridge
To junk food logos
And I hold on to them for dear life
For fear that silence should find me
And leave me empty
For fear it will take away the music of maracas
Made by words
Dancing the salsa inside me
I am a Woman of Many Words
because Words
Answer my Questions,
Soothe my fears,
and Humor my Whims
They are not always Right
But they are always Constant
They are not always Honest, in fact,
Mostly
They Lie
But ever so often
They tell such a Beautiful Lie
That you wish it were true
They sing from the rocks
offering Escape from
Terrifying,
Suffocating,
Mind numbing Silence
that echoes off my skeleton
I am afraid that silence will hollow out my insides
and leave me abandoned
with nothing between my Bow and Stern
my Forecastle all torn up
I am afraid of the skeleton inside me
So I am a Woman of Many of Words
For fear of silence
And contempt for truth
Because my words are sirens
And my shipwreck is home here
Nov 10, 2015
Nov 10, 2015 at 5:12 PM UTC
I'm watching an old Soviet movie
one without English subtitles
the whole day it hasn't stopped raining
the opening shots are of a foggy
seafront, a lone figure walking
a guy on a bicycle holding a puppy
riding past someone leaning on the corner
of a house in which the light
suddenly comes on & a couple appear
later on, a budding romance
between two holidaymakers in this, the Crimea
slow-paced, this movie reminds
me of an Aki Kaurismaki
& I want to share it with the world
& muse on how the Crimea
saw Pushkin, Chekhov, Mayakovsky
amongst others visiting it's shores
the whole day it hasn't stopped raining
& I don't know if I feel even more English
now or Russian or whether it's all just a trick
Jul 26, 2015
Jul 26, 2015 at 3:35 PM UTC
Teach me to swing dance
I'll teach you how to be responsible
You can teach me another language
And I'll show you how to be so comfortable
Because sometimes we're self destructive and unaware of all the damages we've done
Sometimes we have to lighten up and learn a different way to overcome
You can teach me science
And I will show you truth
You can learn about stand up
And you can force me to watch the news
I will bake you cupcakes
You can make fondue
We'll get you high on caffeine
You can show me the right way to stir a rue
Because sometimes our subtitles can be our biggest strengths
And sometimes our past times are the inspirations we create
Mar 3, 2014
Mar 3, 2014 at 10:36 AM UTC
i'm sorry you find it necessary
to put other people's body parts
inside your mouth
like you're some teething mental infant,
or maybe you're trying to take the place
of the baby we're pretending never happened…
…fuck. i need a moment. .. …. …
ok.
anyway,
******* got you into this
so you think ******* will get you out?
it's ******* funny i have to flee the ******* country
to get free from your fingers' guilty grip
on a sad mind that can't ******* forgive himself,
on a mind muddied with so many mistakes
i get light-headed every ******* morning trying to decide
which regret to let ruin my day today,
but thank god you've always been there to remind me.
i thank that great guy in the sky
that you're always there
willing & ready
to rub it in.
maybe i just loved you too much,
i guess,
& you loved me just enough
so i'd still do favors for you
& god isn't that what Shakespeare was talking about?
we were rarely a well-written romance
but we ******* NAILED tragedy.
& i told you that first night
as we talked over
some movie i didn't care about
in some language i'll never learn,
that i ******* hated musicals….well
you must've read my subtitles
because you still sing inside my head sometimes.
Sep 7, 2012
Sep 7, 2012 at 2:45 PM UTC
I am alone with you.
A fire burns in the distance,
It lights our faces
As before in the empty cinema,
Where we arrived, at some beginning,
To watch a foreign film. Our eyes,
In new utterance, murmuring subtitles,
What words could never speak,
The tips of seats, rows of air
And the moony screen,
A tableau of feathers and cloud,
Two of us, alone, as one,
Rapt in the spread of wings.
Later, alone we dine in the Café
Campagne. Our conversation
Deafens a burgeoning crowd,
Coffee was nectar, our words
Were whispering petals.
Dearest Blodeuwedd, I saw the sweetest
Sorrow on your face, the green ocean
In your eyes, I was cleansed
By your tears. I have always
Known you.
Across the border on the far island,
You stepped into the waters with me
And when you disrobed you lit the stars
And the stars and my eyes kissed your skin,
Your slender legs, columns, tilting
Toward heaven, in the age of Helen,
Touched the water and the sky,
I saw the milky way that night.
Síneánn, I am your Pablo,
We are two white birds sailing
Over the foam of the sea.
Solvent to my stone, you are the hinge
To my casement world. Rain petal
Voice, lithe, alabaster woman,
I am lost in your Sargasso eyes,
I hold your skin, my Selkie,
Sweet Niamh, I have lived
One hundred years this week.
It is warm in the distance,
In the country of the sun,
We end at the house in Umbria,
In the autumn, there is no word
Siberia, my light Rosaleen.
Now is harvest time.
At the great table we feast
With family and friends
And I am not alone with you.
Aug 28, 2012
Aug 28, 2012 at 1:05 PM UTC
I am alone with you.
A fire burns in the distance,
It lights our faces
As before in the empty cinema,
Where we arrived, at some beginning,
To watch a foreign film. Our eyes,
In new utterance, murmuring subtitles,
What words could never speak,
The tips of seats, rows of air
And the moony screen,
A tableau of feathers and cloud,
Two of us, alone, as one,
Rapt in the spread of wings.
Later, alone we dine in the Café
Campagne. Our conversation
Deafens a burgeoning crowd,
Coffee was nectar, our words
Were whispering petals.
Dearest Blodeuwedd, I saw the sweetest
Sorrow on your face, the green ocean
In your eyes, I was cleansed
By your tears. I have always
Known you.
Across the border on the far island,
You stepped into the waters with me
And when you disrobed you lit the stars
And the stars and my eyes kissed your skin,
Your slender legs, columns, tilting
Toward heaven, in the age of Helen,
Touched the water and the sky,
I saw the milky way that night.
Síneánn, I am your Pablo,
We are two white birds sailing
Over the foam of the sea.
Solvent to my stone, you are the hinge
To my casement world. Rain petal
Voice, lithe, alabaster woman,
I am lost in your Sargasso eyes,
I hold your skin, my Selkie,
Sweet Niamh, I have lived
One hundred years this week.
It is warm in the distance,
In the country of the sun,
We end at the house in Umbria,
In the autumn, there is no word
Siberia, my light Rosaleen.
Now is harvest time.
At the great table we feast
With family and friends
And I am not alone with you.
Nov 2, 2013
Nov 2, 2013 at 4:32 PM UTC
I am alone with you.
A fire burns in the distance,
It lights our faces
As before in the empty cinema,
Where we arrived, at some beginning,
To watch a foreign film. Our eyes,
In new utterance, murmuring subtitles,
What words could never speak,
The tips of seats, rows of air
And the moony screen,
A tableau of feathers and cloud,
Two of us, alone, as one,
Rapt in the spread of wings.
Later, alone we dine in the Café
Campagne. Our conversation
Deafens a burgeoning crowd,
Coffee was nectar, our words
Were whispering petals.
Dearest Blodeuwedd, I saw the sweetest
Sorrow on your face, the green ocean
In your eyes, I was cleansed
By your tears. I have always
Known you.
Across the border on the far island,
You stepped into the waters with me
And when you disrobed you lit the stars
And the stars and my eyes kissed your skin,
Your slender legs, columns, tilting
Toward heaven, in the age of Helen,
Touched the water and the sky,
I saw the milky way that night.
Síneánn, I am your Pablo,
We are two white birds sailing
Over the foam of the sea.
Solvent to my stone, you are the hinge
To my casement world. Rain petal
Voice, lithe, alabaster woman,
I am lost in your Sargasso eyes,
I hold your skin, my Selkie,
Sweet Niamh, I have lived
One hundred years this week.
It is warm in the distance,
In the country of the sun,
We end at the house in Umbria,
In the autumn, there is no word
Siberia, my light Rosaleen.
Now is harvest time.
At the great table we feast
With family and friends
And I am not alone with you.
Mar 12, 2013
Mar 12, 2013 at 4:00 PM UTC
Coagulation in the limbic system
The pineal gland commence emission
Insemination within the vision
Clouded by foreign dubbed derision
Fray the edges, fringe incision
Behold the schism, parabolic business
Subtitles for the learning minions
And it is booming like v twin pistons
Streamline slithering tunnel vision
Between the rock and hard resistance
Living the lie, we're deathly hidden
Not just fire but the end decision
Resulting is the pouring human
A sudden break elastic intrusion
The hour spawned upon confusion
Forever running through illusion
Jul 31, 2013
Jul 31, 2013 at 1:39 PM UTC
LIFE IS SHORT
AND WE'RE A LONG TIME DEAD
Whether we are riding a unicorn
Across a rainbow
While the wind blows majestically
Our lustrous eye haloed by seagulls
We may act and act
Like we are tall
And our finger nails have
A big heart of their own
We may play kittens or puppies
And get excited about plastic bones
We may get lost in the grammar constructions and commas of sunset
In and out of our comfort zone
We may want to belong to two life clubs
And finish a movie every seven ten days
Always up for subtitles
Be it old sci fi 30's 40's 50's 60's noir war
We may try with a pair of scissors or a broom
To put death sleeping in socks and plan ahead endless possibilities of karma
If we're wildly in love with life
And understand that life isn't a pie
That being in life isn't a sport
And that faith on life is a little like a full time job
But that death is like a hook living just around the corner whom we share
With the same post code.
Life is short, life is petite
Life is a ****** a dwarf, a suckling
Life is fast as a snap of our fingers
Life is a bait, a worm
Life is sparks
And we're a long time dead
So let's fish capers and mangoes
In and out the apparences
In and out the distance
While the harvest season is booming
Up there in the blooming volcanoes of sunset.
Sep 13, 2019
Sep 13, 2019 at 2:43 PM UTC
and there is some beauty
in listening to mouths
speak a language
that you may not understand
but at the bottom of the screen
stream the words
that leave the lips
you begin to realize
all you've got to do is read
and that you haven't
forgotten how to
take it all in
and as boys fall in love
with girls in cafes
and ride around on mopeds
and ********** their bodies
to men who needn't the money,
but the ***
because they haven't touched
their wives since
they gave birth
to their second child
you begin to realize
how beautiful
french truly is
and that you haven't forgotten
what montmartre's graves
look like in the evening's fleeting light
and as a girl falls in love
with two men at once
and they discover
how sordid lovers can be
while painting their
stories for all artistic
eyes to drink in slowly
and they lay on their
brand new queen,
because there just isn't
room for three
on a twin
you begin to
remember that spanish
is full of passion
and that you haven't forgotten
everything you learned in tenth grade
words may be formed
with different movement
of our tongues
and you may not have the
slightest idea what i'm saying
as i scrawl down these lines,
but i'm certain
that we've all found beauty
in listening to someone
pour their heart out
on the page
May 16, 2011
May 16, 2011 at 11:45 PM UTC
happy birthday to you
happy birthday to you
happy birthday...
happy birthday...
happy birthday, to...
Today I felt like I was born as a much saddder person
I feel sadness because I feel lost
the country I lived in all my life decided it was somewhere else
and the people I called countrymen and friends decided to go with it
nothing looks like it used to
nothing feels like it's supposed to
and even nothing has changed
to become this everything.
the sound of laughter escaping lips
needs subtitles
and the messages from my best friend's eyes need decrypting
a knowing look no longer knowing
where my parents house is
where the giant tree, with kites stuck and tire swings
is planted where I spent my years growing
my old toys lie in attic space
I do not know what happened
I don't know what went wrong
but I just want to hear again the tune of that familiar birthday song
happy...bir....ay
ha...pybur...
now, how did all that go?
Aug 10, 2011
Aug 10, 2011 at 7:02 AM UTC
Tell me have you ever opened your eyes...
Seen the hit coming...?
Where are you now? Where did you hide?
Are you still running?
Running away from me?
Telling yourself "you need to go".
Your heart still beats for me
But your mind is letting go.
It's in the air
The feeling of us
Both trying to move on but we can't adjust
You lie in bed and close your eyes
You still feel the emotion just give it time
As we watch the clock tic on you and I
Think the seconds turned to minutes but I realized
That I've been working so hard, putting in overtime
But does that mean I'll be having you over time?
Maybe I'm being naive, controlled, silly and enslaved
You opened up my soul but left my chances in the cage
You told me it was all perfect, now this was all a mistake?
Her confused mind leads to uncertainty, forcing herself to leave converts possibilities to a sure heartbreak.
Now I'm sitting here thinking all day long
The topic of conversation and it feels so wrong
Because you ain't doing the same and are so far gone
So afraid of the past that our future is done.
We all know the grass ain't greener on the other side
Thinking another man is holding what should be mine...(echoes out)
(alarm clock)
**** This all wasn't a dream
It still doesn't make sense...
Why'd this have to happen to me?
Why didn't I look...before making that turn?
You know what they say in life?
You're greatest mistakes is what helps you learn
Never regret what made you smile
Never live with regret...
Life is a feeling process...
And I feel the becoming of my best.
May 9, 2016
May 9, 2016 at 12:54 AM UTC
I am alone with you.
A fire burns in the distance,
It lights our faces
As before in the empty cinema,
Where we arrived, at some beginning,
To watch a foreign film. Our eyes,
In new utterance, murmuring subtitles,
What words could never speak,
The tips of seats, rows of air
And the moony screen,
A tableau of feathers and cloud,
Two of us, alone, as one,
Rapt in the spread of wings.
Later, alone we dine in the Café
Campagne. Our conversation
Deafens a burgeoning crowd,
Coffee was nectar, our words
Were whispering petals.
Dearest Blodeuwedd, I saw the sweetest
Sorrow on your face, the green ocean
In your eyes, I was cleansed
By your tears. I have always
Known you.
Across the border on the far island,
You stepped into the waters with me
And when you disrobed you lit the stars
And the stars and my eyes kissed your skin,
Your slender legs, columns, tilting
Toward heaven, in the age of Helen,
Touched the water and the sky,
I saw the milky way that night.
Síneánn, I am your Pablo,
We are two white birds sailing
Over the foam of the sea.
Solvent to my stone, you are the hinge
To my casement world. Rain petal
Voice, lithe, alabaster woman,
I am lost in your Sargasso eyes,
I hold your skin, my Selkie,
Sweet Niamh, I have lived
One hundred years this week.
It is warm in the distance,
In the country of the sun,
We end at the house in Umbria,
In the autumn, there is no word
Siberia, my light Rosaleen.
Now is harvest time.
At the great table we feast
With family and friends
And I am not alone with you.
Dec 6, 2014
Dec 6, 2014 at 2:40 PM UTC
Winters here are unpredictable.
There are days when the fire stays in, when I watch the log pile shrink by the hour.
Other days, a weak sun raises the temperature by degrees, as well as the spirits.
Today, there's a chill in the air, so I call my friend to meet at the local bar -
that means I won't have to burn any logs.
She works here in the village, turning pots, then decorates them with the traditional blue designs
for tourists to buy – if she's lucky.
At the bar, she tells me about her new project. She knows exactly what she wants.
Ideas spin in her head like the pots on her wheel.
This time, she says, she's determined.
Her enthusiasm doesn't last for long.
She drifts away, staring into the middle distance, lost in private thoughts.
I study her hands- always tense, never still. Her slim fingers engrained with the red earth that she shapes.
Her wedding ring hangs from a chain around her neck, leaving her hands free from obstructions while she kneads the clay.
In the background, beer glasses crash about and a dog is barking somewhere outside.
Her eyes flick towards the T.V. High on the wall.
Sometimes, when an important match is on, there's football, but more often than not, like today,
there's a violent American film with subtitles in her own language.
She shivers, then comes back to me, pulling her scarf closer around her shoulders.
She tells me she's seen the film before and knows the plot well.
It's the one where the husband gets drunk and tries to **** his wife, but no one will believe her.
She looks tired.
She says she's been up all night trying to fix a faulty thermostat - that the heat of the kiln was too high and broke all her pots. Then the main fuse burned out and that she'd have to get an engineer in to fix it.
After a while, we embrace and part.
Walking home, I think of my friend and how she could never bear the space between her hands and her precious creations.
The air feels chillier now and an icy wind has started to blow.
I expect by the end of the day there'll be snow on the ground.
But there again, it might just rain.
copyright © Caroline Grace 2013
Apr 26, 2013
Apr 26, 2013 at 12:51 PM UTC
I wish you came with an instruction manual, because loving you makes no sense.
I take that back because even if you did it would probably be written in German.
I try to put together pieces and all I see is handle with care but when I reach out, your body language says "don't touch me there." Not physically, not emotionally, and when I try mentally you yell "get out of my brain." Even in the same atmosphere our breathing is not the same.
I cling to your exhale and forget that I need to inhale. I pray that you're alive not worried about my imminent death, because once again, loving you just doesn't make sense.
Maybe if you had come with subtitles, I could love you better. So that I could read what you say instead of hear it, since the two never seem to be the same.
You make me feel deaf. And that would be okay if only American Sign Language was enough to make you stay. Why can't you just say how you feel so I can feel what you say?
You drown me with complacency and get mad when I can't stay afloat. You're screaming you can't handle this yet ask me why I'm walking towards the door.
We were supposed to be two beats, and one heart. I was supposed to love you right, but I don't know how..
You came with no instruction manual.
Loving you just doesn't make sense.
Jul 7, 2014
Jul 7, 2014 at 2:01 AM UTC
pick and choose and prioritize
you have one hundred different kinds of days to live
about 30,000 chances to repeat them
where does your heart live
in the depths?
or in the stars?
he said:
"you gotta hit it hard in the guts, blood and thunder and all like"
life is fraught with peril
like a foreign film without subtitles
you choose how it ends
the subtleties
the inconsistencies
the balance of here and there
the cliche duality of life
good and evil
god and devil
now or never
he rolled 13 cigarettes
took one glass of whisky
stepped 3 times down the stairs
walked 3 miles down the street
and fell 6 million times in the dark
i was born like a tree
arms raised like branches
growing through my chest
leaves falling all around me
naked in the winter
clothed in the summer
roots go deep
no time to sleep
come here and flow up my xylem
lay in my phloem
my chlorophyl will fill you up
my sap is like wine
stay drunk all the time
Feb 16, 2012
Feb 16, 2012 at 4:11 AM UTC
detail & light would be lost
without the dichotomy around grey
the way ‘&’ illuminates value
on both sides, conjoining the two into one
spectrum blends the extremes
into a clear image—light
highlights the subtitles
—the deaf are not the only ones
who cannot hear the absurdity
of absolute separation
black & white turns back
time into intervals of past
in a world of color
the absence strips away the present
caricature is transparent without color
in the lawless old western plains
good is easily found through
the black mask and white hat
bad is easily found through
white face-paint and black hair
even though ‘and’ does not
hold accountable, as one,
what it surrounds itself by
but rather as two distinct values
separation by ‘and’ becomes absurd
when the color has been stripped
down to the bare where ‘&’ allows
grey to highlight the similarities
Dec 17, 2013
Dec 17, 2013 at 6:04 PM UTC
Darling
Do you mind if my hands clutch your curvaceous margins?
Baby
Do you care if I get a slight taste of your gravy?
Honey
Would you allow me to put a little work into your comb? The deeper; the more you moan
I have a thing for your eyes
I'm attracted to your smile
I have a crush on your thighs
I like your hair
I'm attached to your laugh
I love when you are bare
Inside of your parenthesis says (ooh) (ahhh) (uh huh) and (grunts)
The subtitles of us making love
The rehearsal (foreplay) and role play
Kissing from bottom to top
Positioning from prop to prop
As I come down stage
I forgot my lines
So I improvise
Lick it from behind
This is graphic but I wouldn't label it ****
Because this is to adore
Our character's chemistry is
Action packed
Comedy
Dramatic
Romantic
Musical, for whoever in the other room
Touching, for whoever witness our groove
Inspiring, to the audience as we continue to perform while being tired
As we call for the last scene
Soon as you pass out
The buckling of my knees
The stage grow silent
The house applaud
We bow
The curtains fall
Everyone leaves
Then we work on the deleted scenes
Oct 8, 2013
Oct 8, 2013 at 11:08 PM UTC
sometimes, i miss being sick.
i miss the feeling of my sharp ankles on the cold scale. the scale has been hidden from my judgemental eyes.
i miss the automatic caloric calculator, the blinding neon-sign. it's still there, always and impossible to ignore, like television subtitles. but i eat anyway.
i miss the feeling of my jeans becoming baggier around pencil legs. yesterday i had to go to american eagle to buy the same pair of ripped jeans, two sizes larger than what i was a year ago.
i miss the blue polka-dot Tupperware in the farthest corner of my closet that i used to erase the shame of feeling full. i can't have containers anywhere in my bedroom.
i miss the feeling of drinking so much water that my body becomes a shallow pool that my insides float in. i have a limit on the amount of fluids i can consume in a day.
i miss walking into a meal knowing exactly how to eliminate all of it, without question. now when i do behaviors i feel the shame of my whole family in my chest.
i miss karaoke nights. i can't sing any of the songs i did in the hospital. it just feels wrong.
i miss sitting in a circle of other sick girls and forgetting, for a moment. they're in different places all over the world, enjoying life as recovered anorexics.
i miss staying up late talking to my roommate and questioning whether recovery is worth it, or even possible. she's in california with her girlfriend, enjoying being alive.
i miss licking salt of ice cubes. everything is locked into safes.
but mostly, i miss you. you're gone.
.
Jan 6, 2020
Jan 6, 2020 at 1:54 PM UTC
I speak to you during the day, you listen but you remain silent. At night I hear a familiar voice, his shift begins when I close my eyelids.
Sometimes in my dreams i see these bright flashes that illuminate, what appears to me to be the sky. But the lightning strikes are a disguise, my subconscious creates to fool my eyes. The action of my neurons firing, are mistaken by my mind as lightning.
I watch the sky in disbelief, for the light show seen is so inspiring. I'm captivated by my thoughts, as they travel along my neural wiring.
My subconscious works overtime to keep me from discovering its deception. But this false reality my subconscious made, is a needed form of protection.
As I dream my mind and body get the rest that's truly needed. So I can recuperate the energy, that the previous day has depleted.
My subconscious is a narrator, that explains my life without subtitles. Threw my dreams on this screen, plays a movie that I'm forced to watch. So truly when do I get sleep, when I'm in my dreams, and I'm deep in thought.
Jul 14, 2014
Jul 14, 2014 at 3:32 AM UTC