astoryfullofwoe
delia
27 posts
any pronounsqueer & genderfluidaspiring writer
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astoryfullofwoe Ā· 3 days ago
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Tree Lights
Each ornament I watch you put up
feels like a step towards the horizon.
It's our third Christmas togetherĀ 
and Iā€™m more in love than Iā€™ve ever been before
(granted, I said that last year,Ā 
and the year before that one, too).Ā 
Whatever, it might all be consumerist bullshitĀ 
but Iā€™ve found my new religion in the way
your cheeks flush pink and your eyes reflect the tree lightsā€”
I like to believe that youā€™re glowing from love.
You could break my heart tomorrowĀ 
and Iā€™d keep this damn tree up forever.Ā 
What a privilege it would be to be hurt by you,
to have loved to the point of pain.
What a privilege it would be to haveĀ 
the pain of my loving come from you,
not from some man on the street corner shouting Dykes!
The air smells like cocoa and some voice
is crooning about giving his heart away;
I canā€™t help but think about how
all lovers think theyā€™re inventing something.Ā 
Make me your George Michael,
I can write the next Last Christmas;
but I know Iā€™d fall for youĀ again next year
(what can I say, Iā€™m predictableā€”
Iā€™m a poet, not a revolutionary).Ā 
So what, maybe my Church will never marry us
and maybe your mother will never see me as a daughter,Ā 
but we have our own little microcosm here:
you, me, our love, and our Christmas tree.
And lookā€”itā€™s expanding, a growing golden stream
spilling out of my seventh story window panes.Ā 
Itā€™s expanding, filling the dark streets with light,
a light they havenā€™t seen in years.
Itā€™s expandingā€”
can you feel it, too?
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astoryfullofwoe Ā· 2 months ago
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Her Lungs
Dead is the green of yesterday;
the forests have all turned red.
Canā€™t you see their scarlet foliage
kissing the sky? The kiss
of death, the kiss of
noxious breath, the darkening
exchange of air that we
have granted a season.
Weā€™re in the end times, baby.
The rivers run crimson with blood
and waves paint the sand a pretty pink
as we run blind and wave goodbye
to the array of hues we once knew;
weā€™re at the end of the colour wheel now.
Dawn seeps into the sky and
no longer fades like it once did.
What was once blue
now rusted over
and mother looks tired and old;
the wrinkles seem to have formed
overnight and only now you realize:
this canā€™t last forever.
There is an ending worse than death
and itā€™s watching the clock hands
count down and join in the middle,
intersecting like your hands do
around Her throat.
Can you breath without Her lungs?
Keep strangling Her with greedy hands
and tell me, can you
breath without Her lungs?
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astoryfullofwoe Ā· 4 months ago
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Petrichor
The sickness clings to your skin
like rain beating down on youā€”
persistent and desperate
to infiltrate your bones,
to rot you from the inside out.
The scent of despair follows you aroundā€”
you wear it like armour, like an umbrella.
Canā€™t you smell it?
The damp melancholic air
tinged with the scent
of an indescribable sorrow;
it surrounds you like screams,
like the thunder shouting her anthems of rageā€”
the same rage that you harbour, child,
longing for a reaction, for an outlet,
for something that your faceless
bedroom walls cannot provide.
Time floats on by, indefinite,
blown by the ever-changing winds.
Shades of grey contorting
and melting into white,
cotton clouds replacing
the gloomy overcast;
the sun has come outā€”
you didnā€™t even notice, did you?
Feel Her joyful rays dance on your skin,
evaporating the rain that has soaked your bones.
Wake up and smell the petrichor,
that earthly aromatic hymn
of the calm after the storm.
Breathe in, breathe deep,
let the dewy air enter your lungs
and embrace you like a mother.
The black sludge that lives
in your chest is evaporating,
fading, fading, fading,
until it is almost entirely goneā€”
reduced to puny tendrils of parasite,
suspended in futile attempts
to cling onto your ribcage;
and in its place, a sphere of light
amongst the likes of which
you have never felt before:
a blazing, all-consuming light,
but not blinding, noā€”
for youā€™ve never seen so clearly;
the veil of fog has lifted.
the world is so vast,
its corners unfolding before your eyes.
The storm has been long and harshā€”
you deserve this happiness, child.
so breathe out slowly, lie down,
feel the grass tickle your bare skin
(donā€™t be afraid of the earth,
we are all an extension of Her, anyways),
breathe in the petrichor,
the promise of blossoming life,
and start anew.
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astoryfullofwoe Ā· 5 months ago
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Iā€™d kill you with my kiss but youā€™ll kill me just the same
What can you say toĀ 
someone who lickedĀ 
blood from woundsĀ 
while others were suckingĀ 
milk from teats?
How do you love a rabid dog?
The answer is simple:
you donā€™t.Ā 
You euthanize it.Ā 
You euthanize the dogĀ 
because itā€™s contagious;
it is sick and you are not.Ā 
It does not even have to biteā€”
a lick would suffice to kill.Ā 
Sinking my fangs into tender fleshĀ 
and holding on for dear lifeĀ 
is the only way I know
how to call something mine.Ā 
If I were to hold your hand,
I would crush your fingers.Ā 
I donā€™t know howĀ 
to love without possessionĀ Ā 
to the point of destruction.Ā 
I cannot love you in the wayĀ 
you deserve to be loved;
I could claw my heart out of my chest,
feel the veins popping,Ā 
hear the ribs snapping,
and offer it to you like Holy Communion,
still beating in my hands and
bleeding down my arm, begging
consume it, make me a part of you,
but that wonā€™t change the fact thatĀ 
youā€™ve never quite acquiredĀ 
a taste for raw meat.Ā 
My tastes are known;
kindness and I were never friends.Ā 
A gentle hand did not raise me,Ā 
wolves did, and they do notĀ 
take kindly to a soft belly.Ā 
Donā€™t you understand?Ā 
Youā€™re a complete crisis of my faith.Ā 
The sun could never love a black hole
without eventually succumbing to the darkness.Ā 
I would ruin you for anyone else.Ā 
My hands would stain your lovely skinā€“
ash-dirty handprints marking you up,
scarring like an infection, ā€˜til the end of time.Ā 
My rabid dog kiss of deathĀ 
would follow you around,Ā 
the foam from my mouthĀ 
sticking to your teeth like plaque.Ā 
I beg you, donā€™t let my rot fester
and peel your flesh from bone.Ā 
Besides, you would ruin me for everyone else.Ā 
I wouldnā€™t be able to feelĀ 
the sun on my skinĀ 
without recalling how muchĀ 
it feels like your touch.Ā 
Iā€™d never be able to open myself to anotherĀ 
because in every lover Iā€™d take,
Iā€™ll look for grains of your face,Ā 
haunting my narrative with your tendrils of life.Ā 
Love will forever beĀ 
synonymous with your name.Ā 
Youā€™ve made a graveyard of me, my dear;
your chest: my final resting place.Ā 
I sleep in your aorta, eyelids fluttering,
with dreams of your smile and warm mouth,
and hope to never wake up.Ā 
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astoryfullofwoe Ā· 5 months ago
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Covenant
I.Ā 
I met the devil in a dream.Ā 
He ripped my heart out withĀ 
nails sharp and curved like talons,
took a bite, and put it back.Ā 
I watched my blood drip down his chinĀ 
and couldnā€™t help but smile.Ā 
We shook hands and ever since,
light bounces off of me,
refracting in all directions,
never truly reaching my skin.Ā 
II.Ā 
I met the devil in a dream.Ā 
He showed me heaven andĀ 
I can't seem to remember it,
but its scent still lingersĀ 
in my nostrils and on my skin,
hostile as the stench of death.Ā 
I donā€™t remember what it looked like
but I remember I wasn't welcome there.Ā 
III.Ā 
I met the devil in a dream.Ā 
We shook hands while heĀ 
told me his name.Ā 
His mouth curved aroundĀ 
the vowels he uttered,Ā 
dripping from his fangsĀ 
in a ghastly whisperā€”
and though I canā€™t recallĀ 
the exact sounds,Ā 
the precise melody of
his name on his tongue,
for a moment,Ā 
I swear I heard yours.Ā 
IV.Ā 
The devil kissed me in a dream,
with blood dripping down his chinā€”
hot, wet blood, my bloodā€”
and he tasted like heaven, my heaven:
like rust and sweat and you.Ā 
We exchanged breath and salivaĀ 
as I felt a contract being signedĀ 
in viscous scarlet ink:
from then on, I was bound to hellĀ 
through body and soul,
but with his bloodstained mouth on mine,
I couldn't bring myself to care.Ā 
V.Ā 
I met the devil and no longer knowĀ 
if it was a dream or hazy reality,
but he held his hand out to me,
promising a lifeĀ 
of sinful kisses in dark corridors,
of wicked lust, angelic in its purity,
and of hiding from the sunlight.
He promised a life of blasphemy,
forever dancing on the outskirts of the almighty plan,
and I followed, willingly,
never looking back.Ā 
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astoryfullofwoe Ā· 1 year ago
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worship // greek lovers
i play your body like a lyre
and savour the sweet songs you sing;
my fingers know every string by heart,
iā€™m fluent in your vocal poetry.
i would start and end wars
for your ambrosia lips
and the way they trail down my figureā€”
your mouth more devastating
than any of Erosā€™ arrows.
we make such beautiful music together.
modern greek lovers; Sappho must be proud.
caress me like youā€™re
making love to Aphrodite;
iā€™m all soft curves and pink skin,
dripping sea foam, ready for your touch.
gently work the oyster shell open,
and polish the pearl ā€˜til it shines.
trace my flower petals with your tongue,
drink the nectar forged only for you.
bite me like youā€™re
fucking Dionysus;
claw me open, hear me cry outā€”
you know i like it rough.
curl around me like ivy,
scratch down my back and feel it arch.
sip on my wine, suck on the cork;
watch how i put on a show for you.
embrace me like youā€™re
bedding Hera;
spread yourself wide, peacock-style,
give yourself up to me in offering.
brush heavenly kisses down my neck,
you know iā€™m your queenā€”
your hands gripped in my hair, my crown,
your face of carved marble, my throne.
make my mortal body tremble
on our altar of honey-sweet elixir
and damp, discarded bedsheets;
climb Mount Olympus, make a religion out of me.
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astoryfullofwoe Ā· 1 year ago
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the birds
limbs heavy from exhaustion, and
head foggy from probable sunstroke,
i collapse on a bed of stone
below the famous arches
and contemplate the birds.
the stiff rock i lie on digs
into my back, and i know
iā€™ll be sore when i stand up,
but i donā€™t move;
comfortable in my discomfort.
with legs bent at the knee,
and my dress awkwardly scrunched
between my thighs and
not on the littered ground,
my feet rest on jagged cobblestone.
stone that has been here for
decades, centuries, a millennia;
stone that bears the weight of
hundreds, thousands, millions of people
and now bears mine.
how many have come before me,
and how many will come after me?
how many will lie here, just as i do now,
with lungs crushing under the weight of time?
how many will sit here and write a poem
about it? how many already have?
the question makes my head
spin more than my dehydration does.
here i lay, bumpy stone digging into my soles.
here i am, a single grain of sand
on a beach spanning infinite miles.
here i lay, with my sunglasses pinching my nose,
dizzy from heat and sticky from sweat,
watching the birds.
watching the pale birds glide,
the sole white blots against the blinding blue,
landing on the empty spaces
between the towering bends
the same as it would on a plain beach rock.
the oppressive grandness of
my view suffocates me,
but the birds fly over and under and through,
in a taunting tango with time
that they appear to be leading.
my body is heavy,
so heavy,
but the birds look weightless,
and right now,
thatā€™s enough for me.
oh, to be a bird flying through roman arches!
oblivious to the historical weight of
the stone that holds up their nests,
passive towards the clockā€™s choking hands,
knowing only what it feels like to soar.
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astoryfullofwoe Ā· 1 year ago
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look at me
tw: sā‚¬lf h@rm, $uiā‚¬ide
iā€™ve never outgrown
the child who purposefully
trips and scrapes their knee
for their parentsā€™ attention.
years later and i still
wail and scream just so someone
will spare me something more
than a fleeting glance.
because my knee isnā€™t
the part of me thatā€™s hurting.
my knee is bloody and scratched
but it will heal by tomorrow
and you wonā€™t even be able to
tell i was ever bleeding.
itā€™s not my knee, itā€™s my heart.
it is my heart that hurts,
cradled by my ribcage and
stowed away in my fleshā€”
who would ever be able to tell
it is cracked and bleeding?
out of sight, out of mind.
i put a bandage over my bleeding knee
and my mom kisses it better
(itā€™s the only way i can be the center
of an adults attention);
i wrap gauze around my bleeding wrists
and fall in love with the colour red
(i never fell out of love
with intentional infliction).
the screaming child in me lives on;
i want someone to notice
and beg me to stop,
beg me to stay alive,
because it feels like i could
take a flying leap of faith off of
the bridge over the creek near my house,
or bleed out in my bathtub,
or choke on a bottle of mystery pills,
and no one would notice.
or worse, no one would care.
intentional falls evolve into unscrewing
pencil sharpeners and still nobody notices.
scrapes mutate into cuts
and still nobody notices.
so please, just look at me.
iā€™m not asking you to rip my body
from the bridge barrier,
just look at me.
look in me not through me;
look into me.
see me for who i am
beyond this wounded persona.
sorrow is all iā€™ve ever known,
but with soft words and gentle hands,
maybe i can forget what torn flesh feels like.
maybe iā€™ll rediscover sunlight.
take the blade out of my hand
and place your heart there instead;
for i am only cruel to those
who i believe deserve to suffer,
and that is not you, never you.
you are safe with me,
i am not safe with myself.
no one has caused me as much hurt
as i have myself.
these scars would not exist without meā€”
i have only myself to blame.
look at me.
i want to scream:
look at all of my ugliness,
and love me for it anyways.
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astoryfullofwoe Ā· 1 year ago
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The Symposium
the blood of gods
runs through my veins;
slit my wrists and watch
the golden ichor trickle.
bow down to my
crown of ivy and laurels,
kneel before my
throne of precious stones
and ignore the cracks
in the sacred foundation,
creeping up the sides
like mold in an abandoned house.
avert your eyes,
because you see, my dear,
it is not just achilles
who has a damned heel;
for what are gods
without humans there
to worship them?
altars are built to worship,
as the source of divine rule;
but tell me, my dear,
who is it again,
that creates these altars?
who is granting them
their life-giving power?
the creators of the creators
are ignorant to their own influence.
donā€™t you see?
donā€™t you understand?
i need you.
i need you the way
mundanity needs divinity,
the way immortality
needs death.
you are the bones
that hold up my body;
you are the moon
and all her stars
that chart the skies
and guide me home.
with your ambrosia lips on mineā€”
through you i feel divinity.
pour the nectar that sits
sweetly on your tongue
into my mouth,
lick it onto my teeth.
your skin against mine is something holyā€”
touching you is an act of worship.
my hands on your milky skin
and my mouth on your neck,
your scent the strongest aphrodisiac.
bury yourself into the crevices of my bodyā€”
confirm zeusā€™ fears and show him that
he was right about the first humans,
but i still found my other half anyways;
no divine knife can keep
the two of us separated.
i will always find my way
back home.
home is where the heart is,
and my heart lives nestled,
beating hard in your gentle hands.
pull my mortal body flush to yours,
exhale softly against my lips.
breathe your warmth into me,
this sacred exchange of spirit;
and watch as i rise
from the rolling sea foam,
radiant and glowing,
golden from your love.
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astoryfullofwoe Ā· 1 year ago
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shelter dog
iā€™m nothing but a shelter dog;
mean because iā€™m terrified.
desperate to be loved but
snapping at anyone who tries;
needy and overly attached
while being cold and distantā€”
but i canā€™t help it,
call it survival instinct;
i canā€™t be left broken hearted
if i have no heart left to break, right?
your love is a new home but
the feeling of being trapped
does not go away just because
you canā€™t see the bars anymore.
the cage disappears but that
doesnā€™t mean the scars do.
iā€™ll bite the hand that feeds me because
what if itā€™s not pets this time, but a strike?
i have my hackles up at all times,
growling at sudden movements,
because i have been through too much torment
to let myself be beaten again.
iā€™d rather be called a bad dog
than be kicked in the stomach
by yet another foot.
but why do you keep stepping on my paws?
itā€™s an accident followed by apologies
but i still yelp and must
lick my wounds alone nonetheless.
every time i show my belly,
that vulnerable skin ends up wounded,
and there you are, oblivious
in the other room,
and iā€™m left with only the stars
to hear my aching howls.
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astoryfullofwoe Ā· 2 years ago
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snowfall
the sky spits out shimmery snowflakes
that land in your hair,
and i feel like iā€™m suffocating;
how can a person be so beautiful?
the sky is heavy and dark
but iā€™ve never felt so light.
your sweetness is new and melts on my tongueā€”
iā€™m drowning in your honey, honey.
i want to drink you with my morning coffee;
because she called me baby
but you call me
your love, your dearest, your muse,
and there is something religious
about the way you make my soul
feel like itā€™s been rinsed in cool waterā€”
clean, revitalized, reborn.
i like to think i see a future
in the palm of your hand;
one where all of our socks
are mixed in one drawer,
youā€™re wearing one of my shirts,
and iā€™ve had a bad day,
but i come home to you,
and suddenly i canā€™t remember
what was ever bad about my day
in the first place.
you whisper my name
in the heavy darkness of my bedroom,
to the shell of my ear
and to the crest of the moon,
and it sounds like a wish, a prayer, a promise.
i never used to like the snow,
but with you looking at me
like i am all youā€™ve ever wanted,
wearing a halo of snowflakes
and a smile that thaws my soul,
i realize the snow has grown on me.
no matter the temperature,
and no matter the snowfall,
winter is pure warmth
when youā€™re there to hold my hand.
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astoryfullofwoe Ā· 2 years ago
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divine anguish
it is involuntary, at this point:
the urge to scan every room for all possible exits,
to analyze every relationship for gaps in my extension;
to agonizingly wonder what it will be about me this time that will send someone away.
why does all that i touch with loving hands
blacken and shrivel under my embrace?
when will all the love i have sent out into the world
circle back to me?
lord, i am terrified my love
is incomprehensible,
poured into outlets
that donā€™t recognize its voltage.
lord, i worry i am the 52 Hertz whaleā€”
spending a lifetime calling for company,
only to realize youā€™ve never
even spoken the same tongue.
even worse, lord, i fear my love is repulsive;
a revolting, ugly thing that my fellow creatures
would rather perish
than be subjected to.
lord, iā€™ve sat at your sonā€™s feet
and begged him to let my love
come back around,
so that i can stop living
with the hole in my chest that is
aching, crying, screaming to be satiated,
even just a quarter filled, an eighthā€”
but his stoney face of final agony remains silent.
i convince myself my suffering is christlike,
a torture to be immortalized in church frescosā€”
because humans like believing that they are not insignificant,
because at least i can embrace my pain if it is divine anguish.
because it is so much nicer than the truth:
that i am hurting without reason,
that i will not be praised for my torment;
no oneā€™s knees will ache for me but mine.
i am not a martyr nor a saint,
there will be no title granted for most pious self-punisher;
i am simply a burning human lost at sea,
calling out to a sky that wonā€™t answer.
iā€™m sorry that i worry this is one-sided,
that there will always be someone else youā€™d rather have,
iā€™m sorry that i fear i am funnelling
my love into a beautiful black hole,
and iā€™m so sorry
that no amount
of your sweet, sincere ā€œi love youā€s
can make me believe it.
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astoryfullofwoe Ā· 2 years ago
Text
august, personified
There is no greater feeling in the world than
opening your eyes to see your love peaceful beside you.
Morning shines through the window above her bed,Ā 
where I sit up and watch her with awe stricken eyes as she lays there,Ā 
trusting, bare, vulnerable, beautiful,
like a muse posing for her painter, a masterpiece waiting to be realized,
and sometimes I wish I could pick up a brush and fill a canvas the size of a mammoth
with strokes of stawberry blonde for her hair and bright prismarine for her eyes
and hold it up in the city center for everyone to worship because
I have truly never seen somebody so beautiful in my life and I need others to know that
she is mine.
Instead to heal my heartache I write laughable poetry with the rawness of paper, ink and quillĀ 
in attempts to share my visions and emotions through words but
the words to describe the hurricane that swells in my brain at the mere thought of her
simply don't exist.
Instead I tell people how she is like August, her warmth like the sun,Ā 
her love so fleeting like the summer month that escapes my arms
as soon as I am finally able to embrace itĀ 
and I become an ascetic while I wait eternities in my frigid sorrow for her return.
I long for her arms to be the blankets that protect me in my slumber every night and
for her smile to be my "good morning, honey," every day,
but for now I sleep a 17-minute drive away as a licenseless citizen
torn from the tenderness Iā€™m starved of
and meet her a paltry once a week just to make sure
we don't perish of yearning hearts.
So on days when I am with her
and text my mother good morning at nine but
donā€™t eat my breakfast until twelve, it isnā€™t because
we stayed up past midnight dancing to Darling Nikki and Dirty Diana,
but because I relish in dawn shining into her bedroom and the touch of her skin on mine
and let the gentle trace of her fingertips on my back and
the soft kiss of her lips on my cheek linger so I can
continue to feel her presence when I am back at my house.
There, I feel the greatest loss in the world
unable to wake up to see my love peaceful beside me.
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astoryfullofwoe Ā· 2 years ago
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tulip, unbloomed
no one ever thinks about the death and decay
necessary for a single blooming tulip;
i want people to know the radiant garden
without seeing the rotting ecosystem underneath.
you make this so difficult;
you peel away my beautiful petals
and are slowly uncovering
the decomposing pistil inside.
how cruel of you to pluck away my defences,
my husk and my walls and my masks,
that i have spent an eternity perfecting
to shield my fragile heart from voyeuristic eyes.
i hate you for this
(you pull off my protective petals
with such an ease
that i want to scream out
in panic and frightā€”
the potential of you terrifies me;
you are the living paradox of all the
angst and solitude iā€™ve ever believed in),
but, also, i love you for it
(maybe softness
isnā€™t weakness when you
hold me like not even
the harsh forces of the earth
could tear you from me;
maybe budding softness is necessary
to cultivate the healing air of spring).
still i remain unbloomed,
terrified to reveal my soft spotsā€”
my aches and my scars and my ugliness;
my body and mind in all their tainted glory,
because i donā€™t know
what would hurt more:
if you were to notice the damage
or if you were to not.
what would i do if you ever decide you
donā€™t like the taste of rot on your tongue?
what am i left withā€”
a gutted body, a cold bed, and empty hands?
i offer you a single tulip;
speaking in a wordless language,
and yet saying more than i am ever able to.
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astoryfullofwoe Ā· 2 years ago
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decemberā€™s elegy
tw: brief mentions of sh
the icy december winds engulf my hands,
curling around my fingers like the antithesis of a glove,
and it catches me in a tornado of cold,
throwing me back to past decembers.
a wind that feels like
needles pressing into my skin
reminds me of the annual aches
that accompany winter.
a voice in my head sings:
itā€™s nectar reaping season again!
(and the other voices wail their despair)
but i say this year will be different.
i say this year will be different;
but after dipping my hand into the freezing gusts
and relishing in the unbearable cold,
iā€™m not so sure anymore.
am i really strong enough to resist
the sharp steel allures of the winterā€™s cold?
i ponder as i sit
cross legged on my bed,
chest constricting
from the python grip of relapse.
am i a fool to think i wonā€™t surrender
to decemberā€™s metallic essence?
my hands are not
my own anymore;
i grab at my forearms,
hyperventilating.
what sorrow are the biting winds
of december laced with?
my blood screams
to be let loose,
to be freed from
its prison of flesh.
how is the summerā€™s foliage able
to shield us from such misery?
i quell my dry sobs
and bodily tremors
by reminding myself
that this is on a deadline.
soon the sun will come back and
evaporate the sludge from my lungs,
loosen the black tendrils curled around my heart,
melt the deep rooted pain off my skin.
winter woe will be a mere memory
when summer serenity resurfaces.
and then i will be myself again;
i will be reborn.
i will stand in the sunlight,
listen to my body sing,
feel my gold re-emerge,
and i will glow.
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astoryfullofwoe Ā· 2 years ago
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a room of our own
these four walls are our own little universe
where time doesnā€™t pass,
and no one else exists
except for you and me.
in our little universe our troubles vanish for a few hours;
everything outside of this room is decrepit wastelandā€”
your hands and your hair and your voice
are the only indisputable truths.
weā€™re pressed so close that the space between our bodies vanishes;
the hard lines soften until my arm is indistinguishable from your torso.
bodies curled like two parentheses, blocking out the rest of the world;
inside containing soft words and gentle touches and greedy kisses kept just ours.
your skin under my fingertips is tangible poetry,
and i want to lie here until i can recite every curve and angle from memory.
but in a few hours youā€™ll be gone,
slipping through my fingers like ice losing its nature,
and all iā€™ll have left is the ghost of your outline on my pillow;
so, please, forgive me for being a nonbeliever.
youā€™re a dream, im convincedā€”
every kiss is too good to be true;
your achingly sweet phantom touches,
always fading away before my longing is fulfilled.
so kiss me again to prove to me that youā€™re real,
and then kiss me once more, just in caseā€”
you could make a believer out of me.
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astoryfullofwoe Ā· 2 years ago
Text
sanguine
no, no, no.
the gleaming steel of the knife in your warm hand smirks
as it plunges into my abdomen and twists at a sickening angle.
not again, not again, not again.
the sensation of my vitals being churned into indistinguishable chunks jolts me;
my liver is torn apart from end to end,
my intestines are sliced and minced,
and i can feel my stomach being ripped open like a soft, rotten fruit.
stop, stop, stop.
you pull the knife out, stained with the liquor of my livelihood, and my body follows it.
i hold my miserable, mangled organs in hands that are shaking too hard to actually keep them contained,
so they spill onto the floor, painting the concrete a menacing maroon.
please, please, please.
the nausea strikes me down all at once
and i collapse under the weight of dry heaves and wretched sobs that splinter the very ground i am bleeding out on.
i canā€™t see through my tears and i canā€™t hear anything other than the blood thundering through my veins,
like a soldier who knows heā€™s losing this battle and canā€™t help but fight it anyways,
and i am so very hopelessly, pathetically lost.
i am lost in my thoughts and lost in my blood
and lost in your eyes that still hold me like a vice, even now.
why, why, why?
i clutch my sides and curl up like a displaced child,
and my chest aches with a red hot pain as if i had been stabbed there instead.
you turn and leave, lacking the decency and courage to bear witness to my expiration at your feet.
my heart is beating much harder than it probably should be,
considering the sea of scarlet soaking through my skin,
and all i can think about as my limbs twitch like a vehicle-stricken rabbit,
is how inevitable this entire calamity was:
a grotesque end for a bleeding heart;
i was always destined to die by my own hand.
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