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and he says it didn't hurt andyou'd nail yourself to a tornado, darling
tie yourself up in the waves and tell yourself that
it's just water
it won't hurt you
you popped the discs in your spine and twisted your shoulder
back and back and snapping
click your tongue and your fingers and your camera
photoflash and lick
biting the dry skin from your lips and pressing it against his
you'd press yourself close only to
tear it away
why on earth did you decide that a recovering addict was a good person to love?
when did you start to think that the bass beat of your feet
and the revolution in your eyes weren't addictive? stupid
they could bottle you and you'd have them dead by sunset
pull your sleeves down and pretend you don't miss it
push your head up and face their eyes and promise that you meant it
that you broke that heart in boredom and danced on that grave
tell them how you burned that rope bridge and it's over now
it's all in the past
you tie your hair up in that same rope and face away
from the mi
crying the river styx into cheap cordiform kleenexMy heart is on the left side
Of my body: the chest side
Right side, wrong side
But which one is my best side
On my right, you're the devil on my shoulder
Chill my bones, could your heart get any colder
No, it can't; that's why Hell is freezin' over
You took the L from LOVER; now it's OVER, we're over
Why's it so damn cold in the middle of Oktober
I'm not German, yet my heart can't stay sober
From Spring-in-your-Arms to Trip-and-Fall-in-Autumn
I'm drunk on love and clichés are at the bottom
Of the bottle like an S.O.S shipwrecked message
I'm stranded on the Island of Violent Presage
Ignore the telltale beatings from underneath the floorboard
Destiny's a step ahead of me check the scoreboard
Dying from Fate's worst psychological issue
Crying in my own myocardial tissue
Neverhere.My hand falls heavy
'gainst your side, while to your eyes
blind, I love.
Oh, for a second with you
I would gladly trade
these stabbing pains.
I decay for you
mold runs cold down my
drainpipe bones and I cannot
dislodge them to move.
Close-eyed you are
more than warm beside me
you are gone.
Neverhere, never mind,
you were never really mine.
like two bones curving in, throat
trying to push it out of me
i am both too empty
and too full
all at once. your voice wavers
even as we speak, as if you know already
what i will have to say
you beg me to be kind
but how can i be something i have never understood?
my love is a broken thing
a wasteful thing
nothing more than a candle to be blown out
i cannot take away what i gave you
how i have already worn away at your heart
i am typing this because fingers do not cry
because i know that you can read in my pauses
what you would otherwise read on my face
and because i cannot bear
to watch you try and forgive me
i would burn the world to return to you what i took
instead i will burn it until
there is nothing left to take, and you are left
with the last piece of me
the weakest, and the one that i will never lose
i hope, in those secret places where i can think these things
that you will still love me on that day
and i will let you in, and i will final
My mistake.I am
I love you, you see? I love you so very, very much.
And I will love you inside and out, through every hole and break and
hastily-patched addiction, and through every triumph and every
I will hurt you. I will love you and so to me, I will think
that I want you to love me back. That pretty smiles and
laughter and words well spoken are not enough, that I must tear myself down
for you to really see me. For you to love me.
I will put my hands in my hands, peel back the skin and pluck the nerves
and sever each touch. You will say
look at me, see how it hurts
and I will tear out my eyes and will not see you. You will say
listen to me, hear me cry
and I will dig my nails into my ears and twist, and will not hear you. You will say
feel me, I am here, stay with me when I need you
and my nerves will burn out, and I will not be there.
You will say
and I will be bones on the ground and I will not be enough.
These things lurk under my skin, and I do not know how to h
then it happens all over againokay, listen up:
writer's block is just
another term for neutral--
no emotions, no nothing;
yes, this is bland.
even for me.
rush the semantics,
more to the point:
i had no inspiration,
no motivation to write
until i tripped (not fell,
like former supposed love)
onto you -- stumbled upon
r FACE---- it's so sweet
BOOK. but i cant read you;
oh god. why do i still do
(Not you) this to Myself?
because we still have unfinished busine---
pocket knifeshe had a mole on her cheek
where her smiles folded into the rest of her face
and it kind of looked like a tear
she told me that she believed in a god and that
everyone could love
if they wanted to love
and twenty minutes later i had her drunk and blaspheming
i thought maybe that god of hers
had put that mole there
so everyone who needed to could see
that she was holding something back
that she was fixing her inability to cry
by crying all the time
in other ways
who am i kidding (who am i kissing)
she was a genuinely good person
and she wanted to love
if i wanted to see someone broken
i should have borrowed her pocket mirror
not her time
so i guess maybe it wasn't a tear then but it probably is now
5mgTalking to you reminds me of the time
I got a flesh eating infection.
Okay wait, that's not how it sounded -
I was eight, and I was a nail biter. I was
eight and I was still exploring myself with my mouth
and I developed a slew of awful childish habits.
I bit my nails, but not the ones on my hands.
So I was eight and it was summer
and I cramped my half-bleeding toestumps into sweaty shoes,
you can fill in the blanks.
just listen I'm not done yet,
that's not what reminds me of you, love.
Talking to you reminds me of what happened afterwards,
when I had a bottle of medicine in the fridge
and it tasted foul. Talking to you reminds me of five times a day,
kicking and screaming because I'd rather
have my legs eaten off for my chewing sins
then put another spoonful of that stuff in my mouth.
Looking back on it I want to slap myself,
want to hold down eight year old me and empty a bottle
all over her face and into her mouth,
want to tell her that it's better to taste bitter for a sec
in the stars we danceyou said band-aid and i said plaster
catching handfulls of the stuff from behind the sink
and oh, my darling -
do you see, now, what I am?
you wanted to hold my hand in yours and I cupped them
like a skull without the top, like a goblet, like
two empty hands
and I asked you to fill them with blood.
I just wanted to hold the real you
to cut down deeper than sharp words and careless
and memories do, and in so doing
to scrape away what you expect of me
and find what you
you are mine, my silly darling, but i am
you said love is love and your love is mine, and i
will you still say that when the letters fall fast and loose
like whips, cracking,
and there is no way out? when i am teeth
and i am twisting my way into you -
what then, will you give me,
other than red stains and soft-sleeping kisses?
you tread carefully on tiles and grass,
i scatter glass over the path for you, hammer in my back pocket
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Bluefley has a gallery filled with artwork that whisks you off in to a Sci-fi daydream, and keeps you captivated for hours. Marc has been a member of our community for over a decade and has achieved nothing but success with his astounding commitment to interacting with the community, sharing a prolific amount of video tutorials and generally being an all round rockstar deviant. It is no joke that we are absolutely delighted to award the Deviousness Award for April 2014 to ... Read More