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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
.just try not to
that memory, that one
wolf that calls
for the rest
of the pack;
you'll spend all
with them inside
.some people are dead
long before they die -
there's just no burial
for the spirit
gossamer loveyou will love a woman
who uses the word
too often. she will
diagnose dead artists' descents
into madness and laugh
too loudly at jokes
no one understands.
she will braid crowns of
flowers, she will write poems
in constellations, she will
try to walk like a dancer so
no one can hear her
leave. she will be
an ice sculpture, and when
she cries, you'll convince yourself
she's melting, she loves you, you've
changed her, you've
changed; she will wear you
like a comma, like
an incomplete thought,
in her story, and
she will leave you wondering
crooked kissesAn old man sits at a bus stop,
his ragged clothes soaked
through to his creaky bones.
He grips his beggars cup
tightly, but instead of coins it
overflows with rain water.
Passersby pass by without
giving a second glance, brief
cases clenched in swinging
hands, Bluetooth plugged into
their ears. A little girl dressed
in pink polka dots prances
to his side. Her mouth moves
quickly and his takes time to
form words. She giggles,
drops coins into his cup, and
gives him a kiss on the cheek.
He laughs a crooked grin.
CatatoniaShe scrawls life line tallies on her wrists in scars
to mark each year passed
and haunts bars looking for the love of strangers.
she finds malt whiskey and vermouth; strange mouths to kiss
she tips them back the way a lover might tip her chinny chin
She whispers slurs and looks into the abyss of gin.
He inhales death with the smoky kisses of cigarettes
injects life paraphrasing echoes of love with hypodermics to keep
the hypothermia of loneliness back
but it creeps and creeps
a slow paralysis
under the windowsill, rain falling bleak on the pane to drip
into her veins
soft dark over the threshold of the doorway to her soul
writing ink into her shadow, there -
melting behind the lidded stupor stare of dreamless minds
it stirs and wakes,
invisible monsters sleeping in her chest
they bare their teeth and bleed
pain naked in the light of morning
ugly and beautiful in the honesty of strangers unable to turn
from a car crash in the dusk.
walking in darkness
searching for touch.
To the one I forget to loveSunshine girl,
your feet are itchy for the miles
between your sighs
and hunger scratches
at your throat
but you have a smile
that swallows oceans
and your heart
into the Marinia Trench.
this heaviness in you
is a dandelion
coming home to rest
Cigarrete Smokesometimes you want to
kill the world inside you,
but you can't
because you're too worried
because you can't see the consequences
because you don't like modifications
because you can't make up
well you're excused,
excused from giving a damn,
for the cigarette lighter
(I'm too tired to stomp out the ashes
and blow the smoke away).
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 Parlour IncidentOne day in July, I believe it was, I found myself sitting with several acquaintances in Christopher's parlour. It was one of those deliciously lazy afternoons which only the summer in her full glory can bring. The room had a wan, listless light to it, relaxing the other guests and myself as we languidly chatted over tea and crumpets. The air was also sluggishly heavy, dulling the senses to a slowly-blended calm engendered by the heat of St. Othniel's southerly climate.
At length, after much stimulating conversation, Christopher stood, producing a book of sheet music.
"What do you all say to a bit of music?" he asked.
"Certainly," I answered.
"Oh yes, please do darling!" Tabitha exclaimed, "he's quite the maestro."
Christopher laughed, shaking his head.
"Now, now love, I'd not go that far."
He strode over to the piano as the other guests urged him on. Ida entered the room bearing a merrily steaming teapot and more crumpets.
"More tea sirs?" she inquired, shooting sideways glances at her
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Lilyas has dedicated herself to making our community a brighter place with her vibrant artwork and infectious enthusiasm for interacting with others in our community. It has certainly paid off, as many deviants flock to her page on a daily basis to let her know how much of an inspiration she is. We absolutely agree, and couldn't let all that hard work go without recognition, so it's with great pride that we bestow the Deviousness Award for March 2014, to ... Read More