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Writing to You from ComatoseI woke up one morning, one unimportant morning, with an unimportant 3 and a 2 and a 7 on a rather unremarkable clock.
The indifference of the occasion, waking before the alarm, was not at all unmentionable, however. And, looking back at it now, as it is twenty minutes later, I wake up again.
This time is different. I remember why I roused from sleep; an altogether trivial event.
And on realizing that everything was real, (my skin being unprotected, my hands empty, my core bent and in the unmistakable form of being cut in two) I shut my eyes and yelled.
It was an unimportantly quiet yell- it came from somewhere I had not been; that place I visited just three days ago and stayed; that coma of being completely broken.
But my eyes work; the eyes that are not looked into anymore, the eyes that are brown now, I am guessing, as they look at the 3 and the 4 and the 7 that snicker in a dim glow of red.
Like those chairs with skis, I rock forward and back; on my knees with a golden pillow in my
Petite FilleIf I could give you a name, I would call you Tristesse because you taste so much like sorrow.
If that would suffice then why am I still just like you? If you know a man's name, you can kill him.
Suicide is not what I had in mind. I would never say ("Kill me.")
If I could give you a name, I would call you Douleur because you feel so much like pain.
If that would be enough then why am I still here? If I get it right, do not I go free?
If freedom were something tangible, it would be his eyes, (the love of my soul.)
Something inside me; it is something irrevocable. I sometimes just give it my own name.
But if I could give it another, I would call it Aimer, because it grows so much like a seed.
If I could grow anything beautiful, it would be ('your love') that made it possible.
If you were even real, and maybe in some year far away you are, I would give you a name.
I would give you a name and change it every day because you look so much like a dream.
Yes, I dream of you, as if you were real
Do ImbueFor the meantime I am on a ship alone
With a mate that once declared me his own.
The men we hung are nearly dead.
I remember one time when a plague hit crew
I sewed all my ribs as a bed for you;
For your chambers left unfed.
Eight mice had made their homes in the row of shoes
On the starboard bow where the cold wind blew
Whenever he bathed me there.
He said "Antoinette, if there is anyting left
When we return to the place we've theft
I will grow roses in your hair."
But the sky was sick and that heat was fierce,
The kind not born of passion's tears,
And thoses roses faded black.
He said, "Hold our child, when you see her eyes,
As I held you in the ocean's tides..."
I cried, "You musn't look back!"
Untitled II am but a cold wind you say you love;
An ever changing weather that only stays true to caring for you, but nothing more.
I am but an obligation. I am without ease and without signs.
It is as if I were a witch, sometimes, in the center ring far from home.
I look at you and say nothing because I fear I might be lit up then and there,
Tied to a stake that resembles what I never said.
But what I have said is that I am sorry.
I said it through a wet mouth; through wet hands while I heard the
Worst sound I have ever heard in my entire life.
It was the sound of you crying. You've cried before, but this, this was torture to me.
Your sobs grew so loud and so pained and I sat but feet away, holding onto myself; how weak I am.
To think that I am a witch to you; a girl with eyes you adoringly look into,
But has tricks that hurt you so terribly.
I do not intend any of this! I want to kill myself so that you will no longer have to choose to stay or leave,
Because I will be lost
For I am
IronmanHear me read it
My friends used to call William "Ironman" because the first time we kissed he got a nosebleed and the taste of his blood haunted me for a long time after it. We'd only been twelve years old and apparently the anxiety spiked his blood pressure to the point of combustion... I remember that when we were forced to take sex ed a few years later we were divided into separate classes for boys and girls, in case a diagram of an ovary was too risqué and we became animalistic and started clawing at each other in our seats, but nonetheless when our teacher Ms Jacobs had explained to us what an erection was in my mind all I could picture was the blood rushing to his nose and then the slash of cranberry across my blouse.
With the idea planted in his mind it didn't take long for William's hands to start wandering, but the image persisted. Every time I thought about just letting it happen I wondered what would happen if he got too excite
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scheinbar is a much-loved and well-known deviant. Just one look at her gallery, filled with enchanting photography, will have you mesmerized. A deviant for over 7 years, Christiane can always be found posting inspirational features as well as regularly commenting on other deviations and encouraging and empowering her fellow deviants. We are inspired and insist that you too stop by and congratulate ... Read More