Favs of note 40 (lit)

Apr 12, 201710 min read
Deviation Actions

Published: Apr 12, 2017
2.2K Views


        Stop Hitting YourselfThis time it's your eyes who run out on you: green gelatinous egg whites with burst blood vessels floating from them, and so there's your pupil, drifting, dilated on the formica. She's never forgotten about you, regardless--
Who is she? Where is she? You can feel her sliding down your throat and passing through your thoughts, but she just happened one day, a continuity error.
You scratch your arm looking for a piece that might know her. Where is she hiding now? Where will she go? What was her name again? What was her name again?
What was her name?
---
"What happened to your arm?" someone asks and then someone asks and then someone asks like a surging mandelbrot fractal in a thousand sounds you have no names for, like the hallway is just a single fluorescent prism flecked with faces of dead flies, like you are so small nothing happens right anymore, like nothing happens anymore, like nothing anymore.
--
Your eyes grow back just for her to stare into: and there she is in the window, ther<da:thumb id="658046943"/>

        one hell of a yeari. some friends will
help you spread your wings.
they will cheer as they
watch you soar. 
never once will they see you as
icarus heading to his death.
those are the ones you keep.
others will rip out your wings to
replace them with ones of 
wood, feathers, and wax. 
they will shove you up - 
up into the sky and
laugh as your erupt into flames.
leave them to burn themselves.
save yourself from getting scorched.
ii. the invisible girl will
force herself to be seen. 
it will begin when she
strips herself down. 
the vulnerabilities will shine through.
show off every scar, every crack.
she will then dye herself with
her true colors.
blend in pinks, blues, purples.
she will wrap herself in 
her flag for comfort. 
you will embrace your identity. 
iii. you will love,
my god you will love.
how warm your heart will be!
your body, electric. 
it's a beautiful feeling.
savor it.
bottle it up before
the storm clouds roll. 
iv. you will break.<da:thumb id="660372793"/>
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        RiseThe more you beat me down
The more I want to rise up
And knock you off your pedestal

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        Mornings I miss UThe Morning starts well
then memories flood my eyes.
The mourning begins.
21.02.2017
        2-23-17I'm still alive,
trust me,
but I cannot
b r e a t h e .

        joust, fair knight of buttsstasis is freedom from
a certain level of uncertainty
and i certify that if i
know the truth that
ruth is better than ruthless
let's skip the formality
and grace everyone with a cup of tea
that way they'll know it's me
or at least the part of me that we want to see
my game has gone weak this year
over fifty-two times and it hasn't even begun
i hear you but I'm not here
I've lost friends
and I'm winning callouses
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        My DisabilityMy disability doesn't define me.
It doesn't matter what you see.
What you learn matters,
And hopefully your prejudice shatters.
        BaileyYour voice sounds like
spring flowers blooming,
born from soil that has
seen too much rain,
too much drought,
too much erosion and
not enough attention
to last through the
cloudy April days
and heat of early summer.
Tell me about the men
who have stolen your innocence,
the reason why you show up
at work with tears in your eyes,
who did this to you,
who broke your heart and made you feel
like you weren't beautiful enough?
When she braids your hair
and your eyeliner reflects
the kohl of ancient queens,
I stand exasperated--
O! Woman,
you do not burden me,
I may be young but
your soul is old
and I long to learn.
My friend,
I hope that my smile
and ever present happiness
stays with you no matter
where you go, and no matter if
you forget my name--
as long as you remember my fire,
I will remember yours.

        How to Quit Smoking II (prose poem)Standing there among the skinny trees in the courtyard, she doesn’t look much different from anyone else, except she’s got an eyepatch now. A lit cigarette dangles from her lips. She told you once she hates talking about herself. (She’d get lost in the maze of her mind, she feared what she’d find there.) That’s why she’s a poet. She’s outside of herself;
she notices everything.
You ask her when she started smoking again. Last week, she said. And then I found out that the AVM stopped bleeding. 
The AVM, a winding mess of blood vessels in her brain, wiring malformed at birth into a thick tangle like the entwined undergrowth of a forest. These jumbled knots are tense, intricately fragile, prone to rupture, to seep out your life into your brain tissue like moss creeping over roots and rocks.
Before all of that happened, you’d talk late into the night about life and love long gone under separate stars. You remember that hot day i
        to wake the dead.would it be terribly insensitive
for me to say “good morning”
in a cemetery?
the sun lifts up slowly,
and the dead sleep in late,
as usual.

        cynical: arsenicalsplinter-thorn boy,
it will all start to
d i s i n t e  g   r    a     t     e
beneath you
you are
the least beautiful way to unravel -
all maggot-rot, no
split-thread, no
ribbon-torn boy
an architect of
self-abuse;
a god of
ru(i)n(n)ing
[away] &
no:
there is nothing holy about you
        DrownAn empty bottle
Can't drown my sorrows
But neither can
A full one
        
            
                
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        SurvivorSome part of me is going to survive this
I don't know which part, the sharp pains near my heart
my lungs with their white-blue breathing-screaming
it was supposed to be purple but it got mixed
muddled
sand carving out the walls behind where the waters go
to flow
okay
okay
Well goodness gracious and
god-frickin-dammit and whatever it is
we say when they wax the glass
and it was hard enough anyway
them standing there with their climbing walls
and marble terraces and tears and
come-on, you're so close
they don't know how easy you have it when
the stone cuts your fingertips,
scratch-scratch like a cat at the door
the mice on the floor, keep going
because that's your job
---
Halfway down the highway towards the hospital,
hospitable, I suppose, is the billboard with the smiley-face
and no matter where it goes,
it looks at me, it watches and it waits to see.
I am a billboard smile, I am paint plastered over tears,
I guess that's how it goes, I guess I guess
guess what, I'm not a fan of this?

        LessI don't know what exploded, but
gold paint in flecks of ocean spray
hit the walls of my grandmother's
kitchen and I am looking
at these story pieces when she
says  I
like him better 
I am less than him,
my cousin five months younger,
untouched by gold spit, I am
not very old when my grandmother
crumples me and then asks
dragon-smiled, if I'd like
to paint. I do not paint.
I am less than him. My doctor
asks if I would like myself more
if I weighed less
question painted in concern from a depression fueld
weight loss
and I said
yes, because I'd be
dead.
Everyone loves a dead person, I
will love her when she's dead.
All I want is to be
less, like she said, my
grandmother asked me to paint
an I painted myself out.
My cousin shows me his paintings
is that why she loves him,
more, is that why he's good
to my mediocre?
He says  grandma taught me  and I
say I know. I say I
can't paint.
I imagine gold paint boiling
and burning my face, place,
places of me. I don't want
to be loved.
        stormperhaps in another life
we were a storm that never rolled in
your cold-hearted front
never collided with
my hot-headed tendencies
and we never ripped this place apart
Some awesome pieces to go check out,
and congrats to the DDs!