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victims of changeonly a thin slat of light falls across
the darkened room to rest on a wall
as lonely as i am, a wall that could
tell stories older than the blood in my body.
i think of how we are just people
who organize their lives and loves
into boxes of respective sizes, and
yet these boxes hold more than our
memories - they hold ourselves.
in this room, so many things have
happened: a lost innocence, a lost
virginity, a lost sense of self.
i cannot help but remember how this
room was just a futon and bunk-beds
when we first met, i also
cannot help but realize that this
room has cocooned and evolved
with me, over time.
in an attempt to rid you from where i
sleep, i switch beds.
in an attempt to rid you from myself,
i chance myself nightly.
and though i cannot see anything in
the unlit cave i call my bedroom, i
find comfort in the ceiling, for that is
where my memories, bad dreams, and
winterxxiii. weeks and days and hours of recovery were instantly undone when that song
came on the radio in the cab somewhere 20 minutes away from home and i sat there sobbing
in the car and i could feel the taxi driver feeling awkward with this girl in the back sounding
like a humpback whale, but i didn't know how to stop. i cried while i handed him the
(slightly soggy) change, and i cried up the stairs, into my room and onto the bed.
all that progess, dissolved in the first 7 bars of a song.
apart.and I was sitting in the gutter
after trying for the fourth night in a row
to drown you along with
all my other ghosts
and the church
was across the street
cross lit up high in the sky
and it felt
like the complete
opposite of salvation.
it was 4am
and with the neon blue
shining in my eye line
i realised i was alone
i was utterly alone
in the saddest way possible.
4:51i. the exact same distance
that makes this all so
is the same that's
ii. you fled.
i think the oceans salt
emphasized the stink
of utter failure
if it was the strong
from a thousand miles across
imagine how it is
living with it constantly.
iii. bad things come in threes.
this is ringing in my head and my ears
it will hit me and i know it will
knock me down.
iv. i'm done getting up.
even so.you were my eternal bad feeling.
that lingering kick in my gut, from not knowing what stupid or self destructive thing you would be doing today.
you drank too much, and i tired to pry too many bottles out of your hands in the time i loved you.
not to say i dont still love you, but its different now. its a habit, or just the leftovers of the real thing. somewhere it got too much, the nights got too long, and i was fighting you more than i was fighting for you. the odds were stacking up against us, and i knew i had to get out of there before they buried us.
so i let them bury you.
just say so.I learned the other day what people mean when they say that you don't stop hurting, don't stop feeling the sting of grief, you just learn to deal with it. You adjust to it and it becomes normal after a while.
It still kicks me in the chest and I have to catch my breath. I heard your song in the supermarket Tuesday afternoon and I dropped the bread. I didn't even notice until someone started humming it and I asked myself to please not cry in the middle of the bakery aisle and at least wait until I was outside. I made it to the car. And I broke and it was hard to remember that had forgotten for so long.
But I wished it had stayed forgotten.
cause I miss you again and now I'm back where I started and feeling more defeated than ever.
on clarity, seeing yourself as you arewe're all hypocrites here.
and we're all artists.
we paint ourselves
onto someone else like
it isn't painful for them,
like it isn't killing them
in the process. we give them
ownership of our failures,
we lay our flaws under their
tongues so when they speak,
more often than not, we hear
some distorted version of
ourselves. we expect them
to love the way we love. we expect
them to fight the way we fight. but yeah, we're
all fucking artists, right?
and we're all individuals, of course.
we're all on our brave, one-man
trip to enlightenment,
we're proud of the way
our word has been shaved
down to feelings, and moments,
mood swings, and oxy
off the bathroom sink.
well i can't be the only fucking
one who's tired of being an artist.
i can't be the only one tired
of seeing my skin stretched out over
everyone i know. i am tired of watching
my reflection shimmer and fade in their
smiles, in their wrath. i am tired of becoming
silver in one moment only to tarnish in the
next. i am tired of asking
aries.i spent the entirety of the trip staring at the little hula girl that was wobbling and rocking out to the radio on your dashboard, hoping that i could just ignore the conversation that just took place, and that if i ignored it enough, it wouldn't have ever existed. but the words were clogging up the front of the car, and i could taste them, and i wanted to wind down the windows and watch them get sucked out and fly backwards down the highway, and never come back. but you hated the sound the wind made, and i had never felt more trapped in my life.
it was times like this i think my crazy aunt was right, and some people really do fit their star signs. i never did, i was too messy and not impulsive enough. and she told me the first day i mentioned how you lured me into your web, that our signs weren't compatible and that we'd clash. that you'd push all my buttons and my temper would fizzle and bubble and explode. i didn't listen. apparently that was the one aspect of my stars i followed
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scheinbar is a much-loved and well-known deviant. Just one look at her gallery, filled with enchanting photography, will have you mesmerized. A deviant for over 7 years, Christiane can always be found posting inspirational features as well as regularly commenting on other deviations and encouraging and empowering her fellow deviants. We are inspired and insist that you too stop by and congratulate ... Read More