ShopDreamUp AI ArtDreamUp
Deviation Actions
Literature Text
i. i'm going to peel my skin back
layer by layer, everything dead and dying
and broken and dry and cracked,
til my insides split open and split out.
i want to stain your hands red with
my blood, and i want to be permanent,
and i want you to scrub at your fingers
with soap til you can't tell what's your blood
and what's mine.
ii. one day i'm going to slice myself open
and i won't bleed. there's not going to be
anything left—so you'll hang me on the clothesline,
let me dry out in the sun, let my skin wither
and prune and wrinkle until you can crack
me open with a nutcracker. look inside.
look at how empty i am—look at how i lied
to you.
iii. in the future, you don't love her
or me, or anyone—especially not yourself.
you're going to remember my dried husk,
the clothespins digging into my shoulders,
my lips cracked and dry and sandpaper.
[collect your scars,] i whispered, my voice
high and thin and torn from my own windpipe.
[wear them well.]
iv. you won't sing me to sleep anymore,
so i roll over and close my eyes as fallen angels
rub the sore spot between my shoulder blades
and hum me the melody of a thousand-year-old
lullaby. they can sing twenty pitches at once,
and the song reaches so high towards the heavens
that i think they're trying to carry themselves home—
one day, they will leave me, as you did.
as i will, too, eventually.
v. how could an angel be bound to an earth like this?
my body is a physical atrocity unfit for mortal eyes
and most tank tops—so i stay in the dark.
but you—you find dark paths in the woods,
and you burn yourself alive to light them.
how can you see me and blow out the candle?
how can you see me and prefer the darkness?
layer by layer, everything dead and dying
and broken and dry and cracked,
til my insides split open and split out.
i want to stain your hands red with
my blood, and i want to be permanent,
and i want you to scrub at your fingers
with soap til you can't tell what's your blood
and what's mine.
ii. one day i'm going to slice myself open
and i won't bleed. there's not going to be
anything left—so you'll hang me on the clothesline,
let me dry out in the sun, let my skin wither
and prune and wrinkle until you can crack
me open with a nutcracker. look inside.
look at how empty i am—look at how i lied
to you.
iii. in the future, you don't love her
or me, or anyone—especially not yourself.
you're going to remember my dried husk,
the clothespins digging into my shoulders,
my lips cracked and dry and sandpaper.
[collect your scars,] i whispered, my voice
high and thin and torn from my own windpipe.
[wear them well.]
iv. you won't sing me to sleep anymore,
so i roll over and close my eyes as fallen angels
rub the sore spot between my shoulder blades
and hum me the melody of a thousand-year-old
lullaby. they can sing twenty pitches at once,
and the song reaches so high towards the heavens
that i think they're trying to carry themselves home—
one day, they will leave me, as you did.
as i will, too, eventually.
v. how could an angel be bound to an earth like this?
my body is a physical atrocity unfit for mortal eyes
and most tank tops—so i stay in the dark.
but you—you find dark paths in the woods,
and you burn yourself alive to light them.
how can you see me and blow out the candle?
how can you see me and prefer the darkness?
Literature
on the difference between life and living
otherkids grew up learning how to avoid obstacles
while riding their bikes without training wheels
skateboarding in parks with the company of their friends
loving family
and a thing called happiness,
I
grew up using guess-and-check to
complete the square for quadratic functions,
but more importantly,
to add on to my ever-growing list on
how to not provoke a mom I always feared
and how to not think about a dad I never knew.
you say that you saved me,
that I should c
Literature
Lessons
In forty-seven minutes I will be twenty-one years old and my throat is tight with this notion
that every passing moment is a boat taking me further from the boy on the side of the road.
I am terrified of the swelling tide of time, the ripples I will create,
the creases that will be etched into my face
without the laughter lines I know he would have left and
one day someone will ask me how many siblings I have and I will hesitate
because he will be so distant and I can feel it coming.
I never intended to swim without him, but
I am drowning under the weight of pocket-stone-people,
the ones I love who he has never met and won't ever meet
and it
Literature
how to talk to girls at parties.
two carnations hang on the wall, and you could be the reason
her leaves shiver as she slips off her skirt or her petals part
when she tells you that her father left when she was thirteen
but your roots are stuck in plaster, held fast by sticky doubt
that her pink is too perfect for your ruddy complexion, that
you’ve been picked at too many times by impatient fingers—
swallow your pride deep into your stem and tell her the way
she leans reminds you of a family picnic you went to where
all you did was sit against a tree with your sister and laugh
Suggested Collections
(you're not dying now, you'll survive somehow.)
—chara
—chara
© 2016 - 2024 snowveins
Comments3
Join the community to add your comment. Already a deviant? Log In
Lamb of God... that's strong.
(Also stanza 2 made me think of Parasyte -The Maxim- and I have no idea why)
(Also stanza 2 made me think of Parasyte -The Maxim- and I have no idea why)