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Black Widow IIaway
Mom's rose garden grew beneath the steps, and I did too. They weren't aligned and it bothered me. I always tried to fight it but she would come down and lay her hand on my bare skin and whisper, "They aren't growing."
And I would be red like the roses and blue like the violets.
She grew beneath the steps too.
notlookingforthepastorthe f u t u r e e e e e e
set down the lighter
put it down.
don't make it brighter.
I set the roses on fire.
she never knew I them on fire.
I set them on fire.
her hands on my bare skin and whisper,
they aren't growing
Black Widow IVconfessions
Mother was mad at me for burning the garden. But it survived. It wasn't supposed to survive. They scared me, with their barbed thorns. It wasn't aligned.
And It Bothered Me.
hold out your h d
please don't d soclosetome
i'm having trouble
b r e a - -
cables over my t
head ar e
g at the seams
the severed cables
it sings to the body
Black Widow Inames
names aren't important.
the acts that define an are.
I, as an individual,
have done actions I'm not proud of,
and I should regret it,
scars sear into-
my skin like a-
it hurts it-
h u r ts-
not on my skin,-
not on my hands,-
but in my mind.-
psycholog i c a l-
there's you and could that
nothing I do is right.
when I was-
i'd like to transmit to you a satellite signal and warn you that
you're in orbit of
the world that mistook you for another,
home, where your wings were folded into scrapped paper,
later overflowing with ink
me, the one who you let drown in tears,
for my sake
but dear, they're setting the sky on fire again
and the satellites are as far from earth as you and i
i'd like to warn you that the stars don't circle the
planets anymore, and your wings are smothered in soot
but the world doesn't know your name
you're lost among the constellations,
one in too many
you're in danger of crashing into another
fly to me, the rain has not yet embraced you in the mist
fall to me, the muddied soil has not yet carried you
if we took a moment to realize that the sky is impossible to burn
i'd like to transmit to you a satellite signal and remind you that
(no matter how far above earth you grace)
you're never too far from home
Black Widow Vpunishment
The one time I was able to experience the outside world was through my tumble off of the imbalanced tower. It was then when I had plunged into the garden of poisonous thorns and was nearly killed. A wilted black rose enveloped my left eye and I had screamed, my sight permanently impaired by the gouge. Through the crimson cascading down my face, I had seen the flower swallow my eye and spring to life as if resuscitated.
These memories of a disillusioned freedom came roaring to life too often, and I nurture the wounds inflicted even to this day and age. I am trapped in such a mansion, now hidden from the rest of the world by supposed witchcraft. Too much time here was transforming me into something I am not.
My fingers grew to be scaly stumps, entangled veins locked into decayed flesh; my skin a shriveled mess of black and blue. Growths of vines took to the meat underneath the nails. Was I turning out to be what my mother was? Less human than arachnid?
I need to get out
How Long is Forever?you were thrown from the sky yesterday with the flurry,
and you giggled all the way down, even when
they plunged you into a carpet of chaos.
but i can't laugh along because i don't know
when you'll be gone. it's been one year, six months,
and four days since it all changed.
and i don't know what i'll turn to
when you're not here to tame my dark side.
could you at least stay, for a little while longer?
i stowed away from the perils for a lifetime,
while you went and battled the demons
alone. but wherever you go, so will i.
please don't do this to me, because i don't know
how much more i can take before i'm riddled with bullets.
your heart beats are just a pre-recorded echo.
time lurks around the corner, baiting you into
a fight that you'll never win, no matter how brave you are.
how long is forever, when one day you don't come home?
Anagram to You (With Love)I could write you a poem about love and despair
How, in the end, passions fade in thin air
A thousand miles, our hearts bled beautifully
The way we tried to save ourselves futilely
But I want to take a small step in reverse
A fairy tale without a death or a curse
I would ravel a story in which you first met me
Sitting, despondent, under a tree
Cataractsopulent pearls of nectar
a treasonous bond
from your eyes
before it rains tears
torrents; a deluge
before cascades of liquid rubies
before I grow war-weary;
embedded in the aroma of petrichor.
The Day He LeftDaddy didn't come back for three days since he went to the 'store'. That's what he told me, anyway.
"I'll be back soon," he'd said, with our customary hair tousle. And I'd smile like an idiot until my mother started screaming. That was on the second day.
Mommy had grown more and more fragile and kept drinking from a cup of something she told me was called 'dancing juice'. I didn't know why it's called that; it doesn't look like juice, nor does it dance. I'd watched it for the three days since Daddy left and I can finally confirm that it doesn't dance. When Mommy let me have a little sip, it made my head spin and my insides grow uncomfortably warmer. Why did grown-ups drink such mature juice?
Mommy didn't stop screaming for four minutes on the third day. I climbed up her round belly and jabbed her in the neck to get her to breathe, and she did. But she looked at me rather angrily and said not to "interfere with her problems". I didn't know what that meant at the time, but
On the nature of the sky1.
I touch the sky --
greasy fingerprints left on
rainbows and butterflies,
glimpses of the West
torn in pale clouds.
I left my heart somewhere:
in the atmosphere
above heaven but below
the dead zone where float
spacemen and aliens.
I often refer to myself as a
especially when I notice
dark wings unfolding
and a shadow spreading beneath me.
I see devils drifting on downdrafts,
angels falling from flight,
and my rapture begins --
I rise up through flames until
the storms extinguish me.
I live in a corner of
the astral dimension "Gravity,"
where everything falls and
kisses the earth, leaving my home
empty and dreamless.
Ellie, one-oh-one.she doesn't know her name.
it isn't surprising really. it has been so long since someone said it with any vigour, any affection, that it seems almost natural for her to have forgotten it.
she has lapsed into herself. her shoulders, with their warm-hearted mammal bones, quiver and shake beneath the weight of her own uneasiness. her arms, they shiver and the bruises ripple slowly - rocks in a pond. she has turned fetal.
the voices shudder as they cry out into the emptiness of her soul, their lips casting names against her chasms. none of them stick, none of them strike open the shell of her heart and set her aflame. none of them wake her from this coma, this darkness.
the world contracts and stumbles into yet another winter around her. it freezes her bones and the leafless trees whisper apologies into her matted hair, her flaking skin. the earth sends kisses up through the soles of her feet, the sagging flesh of her backside.
the world apologizes into her and the voices cry but her stoma
Rescue TeamShe called me because I lived right downstairs. She called me because she knew I wouldn’t call her parents. She called me because she hadn’t called in three months, and she knew that if she called me, crying, blubbering, watering the receiver with her tears and blood, I would come running anyway.
She was hunched up on the kitchen floor, her arms wrapped around her legs, her eyelashes wrapped around her bloodshot eyes. She looked up at me as I dropped the key I had never given back into my pocket. Her feet and hands were bloodied and full of cuts.
She said nothing as I crunched my way over the broken glass to her and hunched down, balancing on the balls of my feet. She looked down.
“What did you do?” I asked, looking around the messy kitchen, filled with shards of glass and broken plates. I noticed she was holding the phone in one hand and a champagne glass in the other. The only intact one left, I observed from my place facing the open cupboards and empty sh
Taches de vin The first choice was the more favorable one, and they both knew it: to take the train out of the city. The last stop would be their first, a one-way ticket, and they would walk the rest of the way under the stars. The open country, European villages, friendly skies, and a dirt road.
The second choice, although neither of them liked it, was one they both needed. They would skip their stars, the trek to the beach, and lunching at a roadside inn. No, they would part ways here, she pursuing her dreams of artistry and he searching for a permanent home for his typewriter. Their loft would empty, boxes slowly filling the one-story apartment, little room left for hard feelings. Over time, the smells of coffee and cigarettes would fade from the small space, leaving only a solitary wine-stain on the floor, representative of a relationship muddied by addiction and conflicting interests.
"So this is goodbye," he would say, lifting his old Marcado from the floor. "I suppose it is," she
k.n., ii7 9 13 he took a bow overlooking interstate 680:
car-comets in full spin,
his dreams planetary, saturnian -
he almost sprouted wings that night and
i cannot say it would not be beautiful;
the palpations of downtown pumping
luminous cells, coursing
through highway veins
and he, standing in the heart of his world
mind ecstatic -
his feet began
to lift just a little.
9 20 13
a few phone calls
and a pair of
fathersi never again want to wake up and find
that someone else has gone in the night.
when i was 8, my father's body decided
it was no longer vital, and so it stopped giving him
signs, and instead
a fistfight he didn't survive.
i only ever succeeded
in burying him at the back of my mind.
at 16, when my brother drives
home at midnight, i fear
a car crash, i fear him closing
his eyes, and so i never do.
i don't want him to be awake late alone so i
sit up in bed until he gets home;
i can sleep when i'm dead, but neither of us
is ready for that yet.
are my architect, for when it felt
like our world had ended it was you
who stood to save us
from the wreckage, from all the nothing that came
of everything our father built,
it was you who stirred the dust, who laid
the floor on which we found our footing,
you who built the bridge from his life and what
faded from our days like a distant
figure through a window in
the rain, i am your bad weather daughter,
The Gentlemen's Alliance #1Mr Sensible
Mr Sensible likes his coffee flat and dark, the same tongue-searing temperature every single morning. He gets up before the birds do to have his shower, and thus always smells of a mix between roasted coffee beans and that strange almond stuff he uses for his hair. He is clean shaven, and his hair doesn't flop down over his face. He looks his age and acts his age.
When you first meet him, you don't like Mr. Sensible much. But he can carry good conversation and he admits he has a smile he saves just for you. He never has to chase you because unlike most men he can keep up. You go out together without the company of others as friends at first. He shows no romantic interest in you for ages, until one day someone tries to ask you out and he slips his warm hand into yours.
Mr Sensible always has time for everything because he's always a little bit early. He has time to zip up your dress and compliment you on your looks. He doesn't shower you with affection because he knows it si
curioushis parents called him will, a condensed version for william. to me, "will" was the constant friday nights of his curved thighbone in the midnight air against mine, and scintillating neon lights and 80's music that were etched inside our pupils like crossfires.
david bowie was singing to me through my headphones, and i mumbled to him about will and my uneven forehead, (my skin wasn't clear anymore, either) and how will and i held hands in public restaurants and how my lips were so chapped that they peeled when we first kissed-- but i was seventeen, i had purple constellations doodled on my french homework, and during algebra class i sketched green eyes with thick black eyelashes that were distinctly his.
their expectations of you were standard by their own means--they wanted a husky boy with aftershave smeared on the palms on his hands, and on saturdays they imagined you with black oil decorated on your cheeks like a lit up christmas tree holding up your hands and furiously kicking <i>
Black Widow IIIknives
she tried to u me from her but it didn't hurt
when will you come home?
She tried to cut me from her but it didn't hurt.
My mother owned 24 knives. She used them to cook when daddy never came back. She also got really mad when I spent too much time in her garden. My mother told me the flowers had practically raised her.
They were her only defense in a bizarre world.
it was painful. really.
ha ha ha ha ha
it huuuuu u u u u u u u u u u rts
it's not funny.
combine cream and broth
add water for desired texture
sprinkle with salt and pepper
garnish with rose petals.
pray into my collarbone
let your snake tongue slither
with the syllables.
i wish for soft-chested nights,
and the trickle of champagne down crystal glass.
poppy-lips, lull me to sleep,
nurse my coiling tongue with yours;
tap my scalp like a silent drum,
and wind my hair in between your fingers
like broken guitar strings.
(serenade me with the buzz of pollen in your kiss.)
Keep in Touch!
^Nyx-Valentine arrived in our community and started whipping everyone into a frenzy with her relentless desire to bring the Artistic Nude and Fetish galleries to the fore. 9 years later, and it's safe to say that Nyx is not only a leader as a photographer in these galleries, but she has also established herself as a much saught after model. ^... Read More