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it's 4amand my heart's still beating.}
tying heart-strings with our scores set at zero.
folding our glove of black inked hearts;
we stopped lusting for kicks.
at 2.23 am, reality wasn't all it was made out to be.}
thorned through your pupils;
dropping seconds of olive breath
as i sacrificed my lungs to feed
hexing the charmed air
and bleaching the sky; a whitewash
deluge, with ivory petticoats
translucent amidst the haze;
my smoky half-moon crescents obscured
from your sight. blurring with spits
of earl-grey rubble dropping from our
forgotten eyes-- i step
away; lost into the distance.
at 3.45 am, reality ceased to exist.}
and the clouds don't fly like they used to.
the kites have fallen;
and sparrows are grounded. their wings
caught in limbo; multiple choice with all the
wrong answers, coaxed to fight or flight.
and i'm still alive.
peeling bandages, platonic skyThere were no stars in Vegas
until I found you.
Alas, there are other stars
in the sky. Brighter stars,
maybe. But I like my star,
what used to be my star
before we both
VespertineIf I start flossing with violin strings so that my words will be musical, will Mother drive me to the asylum? And when she drives me to the asylum, will you come with me? And as I pull out my nails and smear the blood on my eyelids, will you listen to my despair, the rantings of pathetic poetic me?
Sometimes I punch myself in the eyes so that I can see the stars on city nights, and use their wishes to bring you here. Sometimes I open my mouth on rainy days to catch Mother Nature's tears. Even if it melts my mask away and taints my virgin tongue, will you love me? Its all I don't have and all I need, and quite frankly, I think it just may drive me mad.
Wrap your arms around me because you can. Hold me tight, I feel no shame so never let me go
even when I bite and kick and scream, never let me go. Love me, love me when I'm savage.
dear you, i've lost my minddear you
i'm sorry if my writing is illegible and it hurts
your perfect autumn-leaf eyes to decipher, but
my mind explodes across my page when i
think of you just for one second. if you love me
you can read past the smudges and blemishes,
like you do the battlefield of scars and imperfections
traced onto my icy skin. i love you more.
when i saw the news this morning, i'd be
lying if i said i didn't think about you. hypnotised
by famine, tragedy and war, my ears were lost
whilst i dwelled over my burnt toast and lukewarm
coffee. i don't care what you say, but the weatherman
looks just like you. but he reads from auto cues, and
i'm lead to believe the poems in your trash that are
left for me aren't from google. somehow, i love you
and your cheap excuses.
i saw you in the street today. at least, i think i did. i
rang your phone but you declined my call. and don't say
that you didn't, i saw you make the conscious effort to
unchain your hand from that whore
the cruelty of your smilesit's six-thirty a.m.
and my ribcage is
with every thought of you.
i can see it clearly:
the turned-up corners of a smile
trying to take control of your face,
the wild wind-intensity
of your sea-green pebble-eyes
raking my hands as if you're dissecting me,
the way your palm-lines molded to my spine
as you pressed me close one last time...
i can still feel your lips
whispering me closer to you,
drawing me out and down,
and in the still of almost-sunrise,
the backs of your hands look like claws
scrambling for purchase on my skin.
i can hear you.
it's six-forty a.m.
and i've got the radio blaring,
but your halting breathstrokes
have me paralyzed,
the wings of a hummingbird
pulsing the air into mini-whirlwinds
of your peaches-n-cream locks,
the lotion on your legs.
it's six-fifty a.m.
and i'm lying half-awake in my bed.
the pillow that used to be
how many broken notesshe lost her place in the middle of broken melodies,
your fingers twisted on flattened notes and
she tripped over tritones on your fingerboard when she left.
she was A minor, you were A major,
and her tongue was always [too sharp]
and your palms together were [too flat] and they always slipped.
you couldn't listen,
it hurt your ears when she cried
and you said
"oh please, shush"
and plugged your ears
her feet stumbled on cracked bridges,
snarled tangling strings, and
you said she sang the devil's chorus
when she meant to sing you
a l u l l a b y
she was a dissonance, so restless,
his lullabies had too many
and they clashed,
how many broken notes
can a bar hold?
The BeginningHe told them, of course. He told those idiots everything, the whole damn story, including the blunder he'd made, and its consequences. Looking back on it later, he realized he had probably been in shock the whole time. It made sense, anyone would have been.
Soph was about twenty years old, and he'd been that way for a couple of years already, ever since the Hoarde had started attacking humanity from the past. Every day that passed, they ate at another day in the past. It sickened him. Those creatures had absolutely no regard for proper time and causality protocols.
It didn't seem to affect anyone else that way, though.
The Hoarde was the result of a human creation, of course, like everything bad in the world, though no one else knew about them. Then again, no one else had undiluted access to the power of creation. Even he didn't know much about the Hoarde, only that they appeared through some tear in The Fabric of The World and started killing people off. They appeared at some point in
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