november is callingI trace your ink-infused skinnovember is calling by 19seconds
with my wanting fingertips
and I remember the better
days. You were younger
once and I was sweeter
once, and we shared a
prison cell called love.
You are no longer baby-
faced and I have hair down
to my waist, and you smoke
cigarettes and you drink
whiskey because you want to
be a man’s man. You kiss me
sweetly for the fifth year
in a row, even though I
haven’t known what it’s like
to call you mine in four.
I can’t detach myself from
your wanting gaze, the way
you look at me when I shed
my skin. I can’t let go of your
laugh and your blue-green-grey
eyes, the way you smirk and pull
me close to your heat.
There is a tomahawk on your
arm and I trace its black lines
and the softness of your skin,
and I pray that it will not always
be this way.
grief on an answering machinechemistry tells usgrief on an answering machine by BittersweetObsession
matter cannot be destroyed
from one form to another.
i heard you today
on old voicemails;
the voice that kisses
the boundaries of being,
screaming the conservation of the soul,
tells me you are here
even when you are not
it is only a sound.
i have remembered a plethora of them; searching
for the moments i can remember your nervous humming, your raucous prayers.
but i only know the staccato breaths of a starting engine
i have spoken sotto voce into the mouths of unripe girls
i hear lawnmowers screaming in yards they burned down to build a shopping mall
i fuck a boy to the sound of passing trains.
these are sounds to throw away, sounds i do not need
but your voice is not one of them
mourning you is a second language
and i am stumbling through sentences.
i don’t know the word for ‘goodbye’
so teach m
The Great FrancusSee, now, a house. Its a typical house, two storeys, one-car garage. A small front lawn stretches out to the curb, with a ditch at the end, and a mid-sized maple tree in the middle. Its spring, so the leaves are coming back, the lawns looking fairly green.The Great Francus by Valdrin
Take a closer look at the house, past the red bricks and Leave It To Beaver near-perfection of the design. Go further. A living room with a 32-inch television and a couple of gaming systems; no blu-ray player yet, but give them time, its in the budget. Theres a kitchen, with a rarely used breakfast bar, an impeccably clean white tiled floor, and a small table with that mornings paper opened to the comics, an empty coffee cup beside it. A dining room with a nice chandelier thats there mainly for show, and candelabras on the long dining room table for a bit of class. Theres a drawing room, too, with ni
ExhaleI love the marks that a woman’s clothes leave on her body. I love the red indents and the proof of a long day before she even opens her mouth.Exhale by IndigoSkyes
Tight socks circumventing ankle bones. A watch cutting a bit too tightly around a pulse. The alluringly simple bra straps; wire pressing up into the impossibly soft undersides of breasts; the cryptic clasp nestled between shoulder blades. The imprint of lace and elastic on the taut tender tendon of the inner thigh. The geography of jeans around the hips and trailing along the legs like railroad tracks. The line on her cheek from when she fell asleep on the bus home.
I love the luxurious sigh when it all puddles to the floor, shedding this artificial skin. Remnants of weariness leave whispers on the body.
And after all she has been through, she still comes to me and allows me to trace these whispers with my fingertips, eyes, lips. She doesn't cover herself and doesn't hide and lets me in.
We leave the lights on.
MercyI don't want to die.Mercy by lupus-astra
No one does, I suppose. It's a natural human instinct to keep on living. But that doesn't stop the hands of fate. The hands that, as soon as their cold fingertips brush against your skin, you're gone.
The hands of the ones they call Angels.
They aren't real angels. Real angels don't exist. Just as God doesn't exist. There are no benevolent beings with crystalline white wings and halos burning with heavenly fire - there is no supreme existence sitting on a golden throne watching from above. Not anymore, at least. If they ever did exist then we killed them long ago and as punishment, the universe created the Angels that we know now.
It was an accident. As are most things these days. Three hundred and then some years ago, back when people still went to church and prayed to whatever deity they had conjured up in their minds, it happened. The stories say it was a joint effort of an elite handful of scientists gathered from around the world. They had meant well; s
This content is intended for mature audiences.Sign In To Confirm Your Age
or, enter your birth date.
you can't erase me
like an incorrect answer.
I have started to learn
that being wrong
taste it like honey
at the back of your throat,
embrace it the way
your spine would embrace
your mattress after a long, tiring day.
you cannot rub it away;
this is our natural tattoo.
engrave it on your skin,
that the path you walk
is forever under construction.
the important thing
is that we keep building.
we have an instinct to fight.
not long ago
I may have compared humans
to intricate things like roses,
but now I think
we are stronger than that.
call us white blood cells.
we do not rest.
our battles are internal and infinite,
and our conquests are
the beast that defeats us
is the final one,
and we will not go down
without leaving our opponent
scrape your knees
with the shards of your broken heart.
at times you may feel like you want to.
but hearts are not made of glass,
and no poetic metaphor
will make i
The sound of my breathing,
a heaving of waves against a desolate rock,
punctuates the morning light -
an island entire of itself -
churning proud stone into an ocean of sand.
She peers tentatively through
jagged crag shades half-lidded with
broken eyelash window panes
collecting house fly delusions
as they tap against a glass illusion of freedom
(window? or ceiling?)
A rhythmic tap-tap-taping
that only a mother can love
enough to smother.
I had placed those shades to keep
Critique on Blood and Secrets: Chapter 1 by FadedDreams5
Comment on The Plant in the Moss by NatureGuide
Comment on Book Cover - Making Amends by CB-Productions
Comment on unworthy. by bowie-loon123
Critique on Annie in the Garden by leyghan
Critique on Revolver in a Bag of Puppets by PursuingTheCerberus
Critique on To Know the Universe by OctoberAzriel
Critique on Fairly Feminist Fairy-Tale by MissGnat
Comment on Before The Boat Leaves: Freedom by angeljunkie
Comment on Stained Skies by sunwisp
Comment on A New Millenium by AspiredWriter
comment on fathers by flummo
Critique on Sweep by Geistlicher
Critique on And the Clock Ticked On by Viking-American
Critique on Gentle are the Strong by Vigilo
Comment on Dance for You by Lupizora
Comment on Re Birth by Braxton-T-Rutledge
Comment on Mama by DeriveAnemone
Comment on The Wizard's Princess by raspil
Critique on at the expense of by InklingsOfOblivion
Comment on Bloodlines by SadisticIceCream
Comment on Love Letters from the Mariner by laurotica
Comment on The Trial of Private Bauer by doughboycafe
Comment on Before Gretel by VeronicaRiles