I am sitting at my computer screen with my mouth open, because I just cannot fathom how someone writes something this amazing.
like driving a new Maserati down a dead-end street
Faster than the wind, passionate as sin, ending so suddenly…like trying to change your mind once you’re already flying through the free fall. Like the colors in autumn, so bright just before they lose it all.
shall i make you into a metaphor? shall i call you god killer? murderer or forgotten prayers? swallower of galaxies?
a fire within, there is a storm living in the lining of your skin. together we are revolutionaries—built of dirty little things, because we’d rather make friends with the monsters under our bed.
because you like the dark,
and i like you.
you crush the stars in my eyes and steal my belly full of constellations and i am left starving for you. and when we kiss, you bite my lips.
you are a savage, a beast. and you are more interested in what lays within my flesh than outside of it.
on top of it.
on top of me.
shall i make you into a metaphor? shall i name thee passionate murderer?
would that make you feel better about the claw marks down my back, the roses blooming across my stomach, the grave you’ve turned our bed into?
i’ve always been one to fall in love with the monsters under my bed.
and that monster, is you.
All this naked sky
with your shaking hands,
too afraid to take your coat off.
The array of stars gone shy
under the gaze of seven billion
You undress facing the window.
the moon understands
what it means to feel
exposed; you think
the moon never turns her back
for a reason.
You think the moon
would kiss you like a southern solstice—
peel herself from the sky
and love you for every hour
that the sun’s up.
The array of stars
watch the outline of your naked
body through the glass.
They don’t love you the way
daytime TV says you’re supposed
to want to be loved.
All this naked sky, and
with your shaking ribs,
with your aching hands,
too afraid to love the sunlight.
Decent Exposure, by Ashe Vernon (via latenightcornerstore)
I used to love the sound of my bones.
I’d hear my knees creak
and be glad to call long days my own,
because I’m no good with calling other people home.
I used to love being alone.
But I feel like the only one who doesn’t have
one pair of hands memorized,
someone who doesn’t care if I color outside the lines.
No knowledge of favorite books and foods,
no freckled, weathered arms to climb into.
What does it say
that I have blood I should love,
but I just want it to go away?
You swallowing matches and suddenly I’m yelling Strike me. Strike anywhere.
I swear, I end up feeling empty, like you’ve taken something out of me, and I have to search
my body for the scars, thinking
Did he find that one last tender place to sink his teeth in?
Here is what they don’t tell you:
Icarus laughed as he fell.
Threw his head back and
yelled into the winds,
arms spread wide,
teeth bared to the world.
(There is a bitter triumph
in crashing when you should be
The wax scorched his skin,
ran blazing trails down his back,
his thighs, his ankles, his feet.
Feathers floated like prayers
past his fingers,
close enough to snatch back.
Death breathed burning kisses
against his shoulders,
where the wings joined the harness.
The sun painted everything
in shades of gold.
(There is a certain beauty
in setting the world on fire
and watching from the centre
of the flames.)
Vladimir Nabokov, Lolita
i dream of you as atlas,
burdened with all the stars.
zeus never expected
the length of your stride,
nor the strength of
your long-tested shoulders.
i believe you are the first
and last person i will ever see
carry the world with pride.
From Willemijn’s last ever Defying Gravity….just wait for it.
Glen Duncan, By Blood We Live