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WishingFor the longest time, I yearned for someone to love. For someone to love me. I wanted to be held tightly, the warm breeze whispering secrets to us. Every night that summer, I wished that you would come to me.
I still remember that night I made that very first wish for you.
My family was fighting, so I took a walk, staring silently at the ground. When I finally looked up, I found myself at the local park, and I kicked the tanbark as I made my way over to the swings. I sat down on the sagging seat and clutched the cold metal chains, with their chipping paint and breaking plastic. The park was lit only by the moon seeping through the gaps in the ceiling of leaves overhead. It was sort of ominous here at night, with no one around, yet beautiful and peaceful at the same time. I began pumping my legs, going higher and higher, keeping my eyes on the bright full moon when I was going up, and on the tree concealing it when I sailed back down. After a while, I grew still, the swing seeping lower
Entry ThreeWhat I was trying to say yesterday before I got carried away was that I've decided I'm going to leave this place as soon as possible. Mr. Nolan is beginning to give me those looks when Mrs. Nolan leaves for the day. He hasn't tried anything yet, but you can never know. You've gotta be safe, keep your guard up. Of course my own version of keeping safe is finding a way to get out of here. I packed up the few belongings I own in the entire world; an old battered satchel bag containing a pen and this journal, a few changes of clothes, my biology textbook, and my most prized possession; an old tarnished locket I keep tucked away for safekeeping. If I dared to show anyone, it would be confiscated by the Nolans immediately. Those greedy bastards, they'd say I stole it from them. If they ever tried to take it from me, I'd chew their arms off to get it back.
The locket hangs on a plain silver chain, and it has a rose carved into the front. Inside, it's empty, but it hasn't always been. T
Entry TwoI still remember the Smiths as if I was there only yesterday. By now it's been four months since I left, but the memories are still fresh, branded deep into my soul. I don't think I could ever forget the way he looked at me as his wife was leaving to go to her hair appointment. Or the way he stood over me, so large and powerful. Or the way he pushed me into the corner.
I screamed and screamed and SCREAMED. I watched the door while I tried so hard to squirm away, waiting for my rescue to arrive. Nobody came.
Entry OneI don't know how much longer I can stand this. They tell me I'll get proper treatment if I be a 'good girl.' Real meals, three times a day, instead of this slop Mrs. Nolan gives me once a day, or twice, if she feels like being nice. She opens the door to the garage, just enough so she can slide it in, along with a couple hard insults. You'd think by now I'd be used to it, but as much as I pretend it doesn't affect me, it does. It really, really does. A real bed is all I want right now. They make me sleep in the garage, on this cot next to the washer and dyer with the broken springs that scream every time I move. They tell me I'll get the real room, the one they showed the social workers with their fake smiles, "so happy to help a young girl in need" when I treat them with respect. All they want is the money. All they ever want is the money.
Before, I might have fallen for that 'good girl' bribe. But not now. Mr. Smith said the same thing, and look how I e
SilentlyI remember the day it came. It was as a regular Tuesday as ever, and I came home tired and angry at what my life had trickled down into. Once I dreamed of doing great things in my future; becoming a doctor, saving the lives of many, maybe even finding a cure for cancer. Once. Once, so long ago. Those memories are almost shadows in my mind now, covered in ruined cobwebs.
Now, I work the 9-5 in an office building off of 10th. Every day it's the same, I come to work exhausted, fall down at my desk, strain my eyes from the bright computer monitor until it's time to leave. I feel trapped in this life I have created. Yes, I created this mess I'm in. I chose it, back when I had a choice, 17 years ago. It feels like I don't anymore.
That Tuesday, I parked my old faded Beetle in the driveway of my home, stumbled up the steps, frantically rubbing my eyes. I almost didn't see it- sitting there, silently- on the front step. For a moment I just stared, but as I picked it up and read the label, the
Fantasy I could feel the coldness seeping in through my clothing and into my skin, except for my hand which was grasped into his own. The snow was glistening brightly, capturing the light of the sun. We could hear it crunch under out feet as we walked, the only other sound besides our visible breath. It was so serene here, almost magical, this undiscovered trail that we walked along. The trees around us were so perfectly decorated with the soft snow, the air smelling clean and new. It was a welcome change from the heavy air in the city.
It was hard to believe how I lived without him in my life for 15 years. Of course I had liked him from afar for the past three, but until six months ago we had never really spoken. All this now made up for the 15 years spent laying alone, wishing someone would hold me.
I still remember that first night we spent
When Stars CollapseThis is how you bespeckled my bones
with bewilderment: you kissed hushed heart
whispers and slumbering secrets
into my fingertips. You infused awe
into my joints, causing me
to ask how snowflakes got their
shape and how long would it take
to get from the Sun to Capella.
You taught me that energy is neither
created or destroyed; stars do not die.
Eyes washed with emerald sorrows you
told me that they evolve, they change
into something entirely different,
or not so different.
I now know we are made of the same
particles as someone or something else.
We began someplace together.
We're made of so much more than "star-stuff",
we are made of each other.
two.send messages in their
little notes that
i love you.
i miss you.
where have you gone.
and i'll take them,
fill them up with
send them back, across
to the other side.
i'll send you a postcard...
wish you were here.
because i'm not coming back.
fil(l)edthey chipped away at you,
clasping you tight with
ceramic grasps and art class
filing you down,
filling you up;
trying to make you
they gasp, reflect
edit, edit, edit,
unmask your already
for the sake of perfection
in hale exhalations.
lurks a step from
and you're not quite sure
whether their machinations,
their clutching neophiliac
search for the ideal
has made you greater
The Breaths Between Usi'm minutes away
from the collision site
the breaths between us
and the lost time
clock guts, sprung
our hallway uncoils
his walnut lean
i'm seconds away
from the before
of our near-miss
the beads of air
and the imperfections of
in a rumored heart
a stuttering mass
this broken belled
has lost hold
of the lives we live
its skullsong rings
the same vibration
In a world with no mercy
Day after day
Until the end
The day I die
And then maybe
I'll find some peace
I am me. Who are you?I am fragments
of every person
I've met; every
memory made; every
bond formed and tie broken.
I am an orchestra
of people's opinions;
each snide comment
each casual remark
each passing compliment
I am a library
of forgotten lies
and fake smiles
and empty promises.
I am a sky of hope;
filled with stars
which carry the wishes
of the people I have encountered
I am never alone
for their influence will forever
taint my soul and
remind me of their hopes,
dreams and pain.
This is who I am.
Who are you?
Love comes in so many forms,
growing and changing swiftly with the ages.
A mama recording her sons first walk to her husband over seas with a shaky camera.
"It's only a storm," the big brother says to his sister whiles he takes out the instant hot chocolate.
A teenager opening her slammed door, ready to admit to her parents she doesn't hate them.
On a worn blanket, a college kid handing his boyfriend a rose, hoping it will be enough.
Girls squealing as they throw their diplomas up into air and go out into the real world together.
A father proudly patting his wife's baby bump, a first miracle.
A women kissing her father goodbye as she turns off the machine that keeps him alive.
A middle aged chemistry teacher handing back a failing student a A+ paper.
An older couple holding hands, content with the knowledge of the mountains they've overcome together.
Love extends past the page, from my hand into others souls.
on remembering to breathe:i.
you can't hold it in for forever.
your lungs weren't
made to bear the weight
of this world, they weren't made
to left unexpanded
and unexplained -
it is not phenomenon that wakes you
when paralysis hits in the
night, it is physiology telling you that
not everything happens on automatic, okay?
(at least not for always)
you're born like a time bomb, with
only so many beats of
your heart in place to tick away day by day -
your words, they're the same.
there's a time limit
on your tongue, so say something that
means something - use words
that dig in and rip out hearts, use words that
curl around your fingers and worm their
way into your soul.
use words to make something
beautiful. something remembered.
never leave three things
left unsaid because they can be three
words that mean everything -
i'm not telling you to save your breath.
i'm begging you not to waste it.
sing. sing enough to take your breath
away because even though
it leaves you gasping, it fills up that
Starving for PerfectionDon't touch the food
if you want to be thin.
She starves for perfection,
Because thin is always in.
Her bones are so sore,
Her muscles ache,
But she'll do it,
If that's what it'll take.
The mirror's never wrong,
and the scale never lies,
She'll do what it takes,
To get that perfect size.
The TrundlerThe waste land behind the fire station is always silent. No birds sing there, and even the wild rabbits and feral cats avoid it. Weedy wildflowers nod their seasonal heads in the breeze. Lying fallow in the midst of housing developments, shopping malls, the new movie theater — the vacant lot stands out like a knife wound on a woman’s placid face, shocking, brazen, ugly.
It is always empty. Except for one thing: a ragged heap of old trash, all nasty black tar paper and vicious snarls of rusted wire, car parts and broken glass and other junkyard jetsam. The embodiment of injury waiting to happen, an invitation to a tetanus shot... the city never hauled it away. No one ever wants anywhere near it; it radiates an eerie sense of calculating watchfulness.
And at night, it wanders.
When darkness falls, and the last cars heading into the hives of tract housing stop illuminating the asphalt with moving-picture shadows, it… unfolds. Bitter, broken tangles, grotesquely mov
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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