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Twisting ribbons reveal
the knots in the wire.
Lines consume and cut away
a heart broken and lonely.
Far from eye's reach seen,
strings dance and sway
upon fake tile floors.
Holding and connecting,
falling and believed.
The morning changes,
day fall crashes confusion.
and show for the soul,
lost to the world
the heart unfold.
Your body is made out of crimson wire,
spun around and woven like thread-
to hold together a puzzle that's falling apart,
inside of you when nothing's for sure…
except the tidal wave that fallows
constant attempts to hold back the splashes…
only onto your shore,
but you're not alone there anymore.
Wait for dawn as long as the sun isn't rising,
looking for the rabbit…
if only she knew…
One sign says yes, one sign says no,
so which way does the rabbit point?
Could spend hours trying to decide
decipher my words and decrypt the meaning,
for a second form of nostalgia.
Could spend hours with the water runnin',
shadow of a doubt and wondering
what clean really means and if it's real.
Because story books are just full of faery tales
but Baby never really believed them anyways,
as long as she can't see them happening for her.
Maybe this is the reason.
What's funny, and possibly ironic about this poem is that my friends would probably read it and think that the rabbit comment is a Alice in Wonderland joke. In a way, it is. I'm also terrified of rabbits. It's more of an explanation of PTSD and fear, trying to feel clean, and feeling like I'll never live a happy life. A lot has changed since I wrote this.
frantic, aren't we
I hear my emotion pull,
it stretches about my neck.
Watch me fall and dance by your memory,
a masquerade for us to remember-
love will be what love does…
and forget that there is life where we're not looking.
If only chocolate were a sweet memory,
and I could twist it inside and out…
You needed to express it-
there was something there so frightening…
a nightmare for only a child,
and a string holding you to me.
I wanted to… I needed to release you-
but you were content on staying chained…
every moment that you could have been happy,
you had to be angry at me (and you).
This was expressing a lot of emotions about my older brother, whom ab*sed me when I was little..
breath contract, slowly living.
watching my dreams escape,
make way, fly… away my toy, away my love,
forever my obscenity.
'you weren't real, you weren't really
mine'… but let's pretend for now.
created by me, a child's fantasy,
of birds and bees and everything,
we created together our home, or
nothing if you wish it so…
do you wish it, do you not…
please, oh please… say you do.
his lips hang above a tree much like ours,
and his words pull on the very branch.
it makes me want him like I wanted you…
it makes me want to scream!
…indescribable words… mustn't be spoken…
and the church bells rang and you let go.
it made me want anyone who would want
just a child, watching he steel away…
a breath and a memory,
snatched, unretrieved… and let loose to die.
vulgar. incredibly, beautiful imperfect.
This poem was, if I remember correctly, for a guy I dated around the time I became Bulimic. I felt like I had a lot in common with him, and that I could express myself in all of my occasional vulgarity and weirdness. I had told him about my past and had just opened up about what my brother did to me when I was a child, and I it was one of those times I thought 'wow, someone would still want to be with me regardless of all of that', and I felt happy because of that.
I must look like everyone's favorite nark.
I write my opinions on my chest,
watching rabbits bounce in my head.
I carve pain in my skin
listening as their lips move.
I must look like no one important,
because they just pass me by
Without a second look.
I must look like a monster of sorts.
I know I'm tragically unattractive,
hiding an uglier secret under my skin.
They all give me looks like they must know,
but I know they're all oblivious.
A mirror will not help me to see
anything of what they see of me.
I just want to sleep and dream
of being someone better.
I must look tired.
Ah, feeling alone and alien in highschool, how I remember it well. I actually wrote this during a period that I was very paranoid that people could... read my mind or see right through my facade. No one ever gave me a reason to think this, but I was still terrified that someone would know that I was Bulimic.
Shattered mirrors pollute breaths,
despondency collides with 'need'.
Life shrinks inside the skin,
pulling apart it's maker from within.
This was my explanation how how it felt to be Bulimic.
Living on a String
I could. frighteningly.
Imagine. Struggling, crying, dying.
Bring me life on a string
and I'll pull it.
and sit and stare and lie
You'd never know,
you'd have no idea...
I wouldn't tell you,
but they'd know.
I'd never tell them,
but they'd know.
Bittersweet, they'd follow me.
It'd be over...
my facade would crash-
Skipped school and sat in a hospital. I was worried, somehow, that a nurse or a doctor would look at me and know that I had an ED, or that I was ill... or something... and try to commit me. Again, I was pretty paranoid.
A Day in the Rain
they like the only picture.
sit and stare and spin
like the exorcist on speed.
"I want to" die or sink
or spin like them.
On bees and flies,
excreted from the hornets' nest,
forbidden to return.
"I like rain,"
I'd cry for rain,
I'd die for rain.
Die with me.
Lay on the floor,
twitch and skim the words.
Water sinking through my tenishoes,
I'll never be like them
A day I skipped school and went to the book store and sat there for hours. It had been raining and my shoes were soaked. I felt so unlike everyone around me, even a friend that was there with me (who was reading manga)... I felt like, what had changed about me because of my ED was irreversible, and that I would never be like everyone else ever again. Fact is, though, I've never felt like everyone else... but high school, I felt more part of the group than I ever have or possibly, ever will.
I could see her under a gazebo
Her blouse tucked into her skirt
loosely. It seemed like she needed the room, with her heart falling over her.
I could watch her for days,
flipping through a photo-book with the same pictures
of the same man, with this same woman.
She kept a bandana under the cover,
pulling it out every-so-often. She would sob deeply into it,
wipe her tears in it. Then,
she would place it back in the very same spot
(like a ritual).
"Those were the good days."
I actually wrote this after I broke up with a girlfriend. I was incredibly stoned, and I can't remember what I was thinking.
I'll post more later.
Copywrite Soulconstance aka Quin aka Me.
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