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Daily Deviation
Daily Deviation
August 24, 2013
a lie that tells the truth by *aprilwednesday has, as the suggester notes, a refreshingly contemporary voice.
Featured by neurotype-on-discord
Suggested by isthisthingstillon
Literature Text
please don’t write me as a ghost girl,
all blurry lines and faded features
that caricature themselves into the minds
of those that think they see me--
i am not a canvas.
my life is not a blank sheet for you
to paint your vision across,
and i have no wires in my bones--
you cannot pose me so i’ll catch the light
just so,
like a kaleidoscope of clever quirks
and tragic backstories;
i am written in the words i discard
when i write bad poetry at 3am, and if you look,
you can find me echoed back to you
in my all time top five favorite movies.
i am the way my hands hurt
when i get nervous;
i am the urge to speak italian,
even though after a year of classes, i can barely
say hello;
i am the calmness that hits
when i smell cigarettes, even though
i’ve never smoked,
and i am the grudges that have lingered
because i forget to let things go,
and i am the passive-aggressive comments
that i should be sorry for, but
never really am.
if you want, you can trace your pen along
the creases of my skin,
the slouch of my spine;
you can read my past in old photo albums
and taste my lips at midnight
and listen to the stories that i whisper in the dark
but when the sun hits us in the morning,
neither of us will light up the room
in a cacophony of kaleidoscopic beauty;
we will be piles of bone and sinew and sighs,
with morning breath and books to finish and work to do.
we are not ghost people.
kiss me anyway,
and smile when i say hello.
all blurry lines and faded features
that caricature themselves into the minds
of those that think they see me--
i am not a canvas.
my life is not a blank sheet for you
to paint your vision across,
and i have no wires in my bones--
you cannot pose me so i’ll catch the light
just so,
like a kaleidoscope of clever quirks
and tragic backstories;
i am written in the words i discard
when i write bad poetry at 3am, and if you look,
you can find me echoed back to you
in my all time top five favorite movies.
i am the way my hands hurt
when i get nervous;
i am the urge to speak italian,
even though after a year of classes, i can barely
say hello;
i am the calmness that hits
when i smell cigarettes, even though
i’ve never smoked,
and i am the grudges that have lingered
because i forget to let things go,
and i am the passive-aggressive comments
that i should be sorry for, but
never really am.
if you want, you can trace your pen along
the creases of my skin,
the slouch of my spine;
you can read my past in old photo albums
and taste my lips at midnight
and listen to the stories that i whisper in the dark
but when the sun hits us in the morning,
neither of us will light up the room
in a cacophony of kaleidoscopic beauty;
we will be piles of bone and sinew and sighs,
with morning breath and books to finish and work to do.
we are not ghost people.
kiss me anyway,
and smile when i say hello.
Literature
Do you know the taste of the universe?
One day, when you’re five years old and made out of fractured sunlight and mirror shards, you sit down on the bench of the MAX train. You’re dressed in your winter coat and boots that are too big and one of your parents has pulled your hat too close over your ears.
You’re sitting next to your mother, and on the other side is a man that smells like loneliness, something that you’ll later know as cigarettes and alcohol and homelessness. He’s crying quietly into the top of his jacket and you’re scared to look because you’ve never seen an adult cry.
The train ride goes on for five minutes, which is a lo
Literature
fragments.
You tell me that hearts don't work, that the sounds they make are just ghosts passing through. That bodies are pieces of everything everyone's lost slowly coming apart. Burning down childhood homes is a hobby of yours, and it's your plan to die that way, dancing with the flames. But oh, warrior of summers spent kissing too many girls with sharp teeth, put your lighter down. The night is a snow globe, and we are two figurines posed together as stars swirl around us. You can always burn yourself tomorrow. Be with me tonight, instead. Let the broken parts of me fit into the broken parts of you; I could be the piece you need to get your chest to
Literature
To Consecrate
When you first met me,
All you could see was a snow white glove
jutting up from the filth I let them bury me in,
digits half curled
wrist arced and carpels tangled
as if I had once strained
to reach up for something more,
but had long since given up...
Your fingertips were my Autumn
as I walked backwards through Winter-
A sleepwalking shadow
spurred on only by sound of a melodic voice
and the faint whispers
of a promise
that I was worth more than ash and dust;
It's been two years since you first coaxed me up from the mire.
I opened my eyes into a hurricane,
reached out to grasp at the hem of your dress
only to come up short
when I found
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this poem is maybe kind of trite? but i got up in the middle of the night last night to write like half of it down before i forgot, so i felt obligated to finish it. the title is a quote from The Brothers Bloom (which, incidentally, is one of my all time top five favorite movies).
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comments are loved
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Comments86
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i am the calmness that hits
when i smell cigarettes, even though
i’ve never smoked…. 😘