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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
the only letter I've ever wanted to burni.
if you want to give someone the silent treatment,
the first step is shutting up.
things made much more sense
when I was younger.
I thought there was one path,
each choice a stepping stone upon it.
in reality there are a million roads
intertwined like rope.
I got lost
I chose you.
promises are easily broken.
I knew that,
but it still hurt
spending friday night
shivering in the rain,
choking on cannabis perfume
in a dirt parking lot
your face never graced.
and I hoped against hope
you might appear,
but I wasted my wishing
on ungrateful you.
you died before taking your first breath.
I took a chance
and I should've known better.
you can give somebody all you have
and nothing can stop them from
throwing it away.
you've made this bed,
now lie in it.
you slit this suture,
you're the goddamn reason
I gave up on the month of april,
and soon enough you'll fall on your own blade
like some drunken samurai.
if you want
Die AloneI take apart her heart
And lay the pieces down
In a circular form.
Let her bleed a work of art.
I forgot I’m crazy.
I’ll whisper my secrets
Only if she promises
To die here alone with me.
.What do you want to be when you grow up?
They ask it like a dare.
As if letting your unlikely dreams
slip from the safety of your mind
could bring their own
a little closer to reality.
car crash on an empty roadit happened before
we did. it was more a person
than you or I or that boy
in the park trying
to convince us to
stupid. it happened
before your smile
cracked the sky in half, before
our laughters slurred into
a dissonant song, before
your fingers traced the stories
lying on my face before I knew
just how many pieces of sunshine
were trapped in your hair before
the walls became the ceiling and
I wasn’t claustrophobic.
things I remember:
the red blur of your room like
God was experimenting with the
symbolism in modern art, the
tri-tone shimmering of your eyes
like the surface of the water, the way
you defined perfection as a scale of
women ending with a less than sensible
me, the way you always moved like
you were dancing and no one was there to
RelativityLooking in the mirror
through the mirror
seeing a stranger,
My chest swells and my heart lurches
This girl isn't me, not at all
She looks like someone
but not me.
A movie star, a homeless person.
Even when I look at photos
no memory comes up
no allowing for the thought that I have a body
Or that the cold of my fingertips,
the throb of anxiety inside my ribs
I see my arm, an armband
A scar, a vein, a ring that has no meaning
But it did, to this girl in the mirror
Even if memory fails
Existence is relative
What Writers AreWriters are people from
both ends of the spectrum.
Those that know isolation
and the thoughts that follow.
Those that know enlightenment.
And those with nowhere else to go,
but deeper down the rabbit hole.
Writers are smiths of the word,
using imagination, experience,
and emotions to temper the
glass and steel we are given.
We fill the page with pieces
And writers are Gods.
Broken or whole or
barely scraping through.
We make you see our world.
We make you feel and care.
All with a bunch of lines,
which we have given life.
Hope in my Lawyer's Paperclip JarMy lawyer's desk on a normal Wednesday afternoon
is flooded with sheafs of white legal pads and errant staples.
Today is Wednesday, but the clouds outside
his twelfth-story window are shaped like loss
and the lines around his eyes seem crater-like in the shadows
and nothing about the last three weeks of my life
has been normal, so I don't know why it surprises me
to find his desk cleared of debris.
I wait for him in a silence that ebbs and flows with my heartbeats,
the zipper on my knee highs tapping against my leg like rain.
When he returns, hands filled with coffee
and the paperwork for a restraining order
against the man he set me up with almost a month ago,
I blurt the first thing that comes to mind.
"There's only one paperclip left in the magnetic jar.
It's bent like a swan."
I can tell, from the awkward shuffling of his loafers,
that he's wondering if he should have brought the Kleenex, after all.
He knows women often cry at things such as these,
reminders of the men they've love
1969, and time goes oni imagine you
thief of space affairs, time would go on;
wonder if you'd manifest
to govern gravity’s empire
physically, just as aurally,
so to walk with a
winds at war
captivated by you; sunshine
gathered in the organized
chaos of your hair: eyes would
dance fires domesticated by
your fingertips, boasting wander-
world laws of light (reigned in
earthen measure). i’d
boast mountains by your name.
the exhaust for gods
of transience (north-
hazed) transmuted back
(for easy drawls from the east)—
i’d sip wine
from the wishbone of your
body of sea. plead
the noise of bedroom eyes
& sleepy smells to soften your
siren’s unquiet tease.
i imagine you,
thief of space affairs;
imagine you in 1969
where our time would go on.
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.
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Bluefley has a gallery filled with artwork that whisks you off in to a Sci-fi daydream, and keeps you captivated for hours. Marc has been a member of our community for over a decade and has achieved nothing but success with his astounding commitment to interacting with the community, sharing a prolific amount of video tutorials and generally being an all round rockstar deviant. It is no joke that we are absolutely delighted to award the Deviousness Award for April 2014 to ... Read More