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WhitmanI am all that grows from me
and all that grows from me is sacred—
              my hair, dirty roots reaching towards sky,
fed by sky, shifted by its undulating currents
              my fingers, spiders, crescents, twigs,
gaunt, blunt, probing, inquisitive...prurient
              my ears, awkward conch shells jammed on as if by mistake,
rigid and ridged, elven,
innocent like unexplored caves for children to bound gaily into
resounding with echoed cheers of courage wanting
as if a dozen more children waited within, fearless guides;
              my nose, obdurate. 
The reach of my eyes knows no bounds;
what walls are there to throw my body against?
                 
I Of YouI want you to break
and never bend for me,

see my history
spiderweb your brilliance
till you belong to me
(and I, to you)
utterly and forever

and know
you cannot stop this.
RatsWhen I was a little girl, I went to church. Our church was an illegal one: the building was unregistered.

We would sit on the benches made from stolen floorboards and listen to a man dressed in black as he read us tales of angels coming to save righteous men from evil, their swords clean and their trumpets blaring.

The man dressed in black was old. He was sick. His Bible was missing pages.

One day in March, my mother turned to me and said clearly, "Masha, I want you to remember something for when you grow up." Maybe she knew she was dying. "God loves murderers."

I just looked up at her, thumb in my mouth. My mother was still a beautiful w
despondenti.

"are you sleepy today?"
"yes."
"but you were sleepy yesterday."
"i know."

ii.

she stirs her pomegranate green-tea until it turns from clear to purple
setting it on her bedside table and climbing back into bed again.
her fingers follow the bluer-than-usual constellation veins on her wrists and down
to the freckle on her forearm and then the scar on the inside of her elbow
crossing the tendon as if it were crux.
and then she remembered that God hasn't been with her lately.

iii.

today is long and sunny but when she steps outside the humidity creaks her bones
and her skin starts to inflame.
she assumes that if getting the mail
Harvest MoonThree a.m. moonlight
across lazy dust motes; a
tree scrapes the window.
Your arm weighs on my hip like
whispered promises of love.
ich liebe dichdaylight wakes me up and i turn into the green moth on the windshield.
a few months ago i would have died to be someone with the same kind of pulse
as you. i wanted to know what it felt like to breathe your same
air and listen to the fabrication of your words, your lies like lists of things
you wanted me to hear, essays crafted to the palaces of my mind.
you knew what i wanted because you know the architecture of so many women—
not seeing my poisonous nature, the blisteringly sweet aftertaste that crumples
you into me again, again, again, each hit better than the last. together
we chase the dragon, needing more and more of each o
6.12There are days when I recall the litany of your kisses over my shoulders and I wonder, numbly disconsolate, how I ever maintained my disbelief in god, when your movements over me were so profoundly biblical, when my name filtering between the fog of our joined breaths was so much like a prayer - when I would think, for those minutes or hours or days we spent locked in the grip of fever, unaware of the movement of those heavenly bodies outside the reach of our bed, that there was hope for me after all. That I could be saved.

I remember so clearly the feeling of loving you and I wonder at what point, when it was, the exact moment, when that lo
darwin's revengein the embryo of the city
in their cage
they paint their nails not
knowing

that the sun is watching
from his trap door
in the cloud ceiling where
whales can't swim but go

to dream
and drop down their weight in rain
not measured in pints
but lives overflowed

in lost archipelagos full
of automatic islands
that catch the eyes like needles
when viewed from further away

than the end of the world
on watching the night close its eyes on you1. I will not tell you
you are pretty.

How can the halls and angles of such honest humanity
be so pinched between sounds as elementary as these?

2. You need not be two stringent boughs of                     syllables
nor weave your viney bones abreast these five petty        letters,
whirling in the fire of the river
Styx.
Do not attempt to peel yourself layer for layer,
leaving all the disgust behind.
Do not tally your body six                                       &
for onceCold

blackempty

like the cavern where crimson vellum once resided

Drenched in reticence,
your empty blue eyes do nothing
but freeze the blood in these veins

surrounded by phantoms,
i lie in the dark next to your fading silhouette
between sheets that hold so many memories,
they are empty,

like the chestnut eyes that bore into yours

And as the rain              falls harder
as it falls faster

washing down the streets
through deep alleys,
down endless roads,

for

once

just

once

i pray it takes me with
preludesi.
blue rose into the city backdrop
like balloons, a million for the
morning sun prelude.

ii.
i've not slept a dream
but i have cried a salty face
and letters spilled like beans
into my moleskine,
almost as virgin as i once was
with few stories between my covers.

iii.
the kettle's belly boils
like my head upon a pillow.

iv.
i am guilty for rarely finishing my tea
even when i use the small mugs;
pour, rinse, repeat.

v.
perhaps today i will play dead.

vi.
perched behind my blinds
it dawns on me that i am surrounded
by walled neighbours, strangers,
they're just preludes to lovers
the way i am always
prelude to the one.
the eyepatch and the handcuffs     his hands have promised
     to wipe off every fingerprint
     your last lover left on you

     he has sworn he will
     wear gloves, when he needs to,
     and pay attention to the instructions on the boxes

     "this side up"
     and "fragile"

     and you have sworn
     you will try to let him

     i hear your bodies whispering these things to each ot
Like petals and leavesWhen she thinks of him, she thinks of tree branches:
spindly fingers spread out, stretching
in angles wide for handfuls of sky.

And she thinks of him.

She thinks of him digging his toes
into soft, damp sand,
wading in shallow depths before
being carried by crescents of the sea.

She thinks of him in a blur of curls, in the
warmth on her waist and the coolness on her lips,

pressing the memories and the maybes
like petals and leaves
to paper.

And she thinks of him.
mutethings have been easier
without words &
we pretend neither of us care;

we stutter
splutter
laughing and choking
on puns &

when you bend me over nouns
i scream

louder
growl
more fluent.

the words are there waiting to be spoken

me . you . love

my dear, we've been mute
for so long

speak to me.
The ElementsI.
Wine as red as stained glass
is lifted up & tilted back

Empty cups
touch wood like thunder
having given up grace

II.
Blue veins
thread across wrists & palms
spent vessels returning to the heart

Fingertips suffused with pulse
lift to lightning's loveliness
Browse More Like This

More from ~hey-there-blue-eyes

slave to the sanctuaryMy mind is a sanctuary.

It's not the kind of sanctuary you would normally think of. It's not rainbows and butterflies and unicorns, there are no clear skies and green fields. It's more of an ocean made of oil; dark and heavy, pressing down on me. A cold blackness that makes every movement a struggle, every thought difficult. I've got to keep moving, though, I've got to keep thinking - it'll kill me if I don't.

I can feel things around me, in my sanctuary, I can feel them all the time. I'm not sure if they're people, or something else, but they're warm and blend with the darkness. They dance around my body, playing a game of cat and mouse, t
death.i.

The best games
Are the simple ones.
That's why Mario and Sonic
Are so popular
And why people
Commit suicide.

ii.

If destruction
Is beauty,
Then death
Is destruction at its finest.

iii.
So this ones for all
The boys who couldn't find a ledge high enough
And all
The girls who couldn't find pills strong enough
Scream
And
Sing it out
Until the bullet hits deep enough.
life.Life.
It's a beautiful thing, really. It's everywhere we go, yet we pay little to no thought to it whatsoever. It's unique to every single one of us, yet we are always comparing ourselves to one another and trying to be like each other. It's so fragile, yet we carelessly toss it around on a daily basis.

Just think about it for a second.
Your life could be taken,
Right here, right now,
Without any warning whatsoever.
You might just blink, a split second thing you do everyday, but your eyes might not open again. You might just walk outside, an early morning yawn just escaping your lips, then suddenly collapse and never get to your feet again.

Featured in Groups

:iconlgbt-pride: :iconwriters--club: :iconlgbtq: :iconda-literature: :iconunseen-writers: :iconfiction-writers: :icondd-catalogue: :iconall-is-acceptable:
×

the trans-, the pan- and the asexual.

:iconhey-there-blue-eyes:

i.

They said
He couldn't feel like a boy
And a girl
At the same time.
So he grew his hair long
With colorful dreadlocks
And wore eyeliner
But kept his name.

ii.

They told her that
She could either love boys
Or girls
Or both.
Not everyone.
So she fell in love
With the boy who
Was born as a girl.

iii.

He didn't feel love
For the girl with the large chest.
Or the boy with the sparkling eyes.
But that didn't mean
He didn't love them
In his own way.

If that boy's way of loving is
Invisible,
And the boy with the long hair and eyeliner's way of loving is
Invisible,
And the girl who had a taste for personality, not gender's way of loving is
Invisible
Then aren't we all just
Invisible
Too?

5,591

780 465 336
:iconhey-there-blue-eyes:

the trans-, the pan- and the asexual.by ~hey-there-blue-eyes

DescriptionDetailsShare
Download HTML download, 1.0 KB
Also named 'invisible.'

EDIT: oh my gosh. I cannot believe this got a DD! Thank you so much, to :iconthorns: for featuring it to every single dA member who took the time to read, comment, or favorite. Thank you all so much. This is amazing. <3
©2013 ~hey-there-blue-eyes
Category: Literature / Poetry / Human Nature / Free Verse

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January 5
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Daily Deviation

Given 2013-01-26
the trans-, the pan- and the asexual. by ~hey-there-blue-eyes ( Featured by `thorns )
:iconassureastheskyisblue:
Mood: Love ~assureastheskyisblue Apr 15, 2013
In sex ed and stuff, when the teachers start to teach you about normal relationships, they should begin the lesson by reciting this poem. And then ask the class what they think a "normal" relationship is, and if there are any different kinds. This. Is. Amazing.
Reply
:iconfantasticeverything:
~fantasticEverything Feb 2, 2013  Hobbyist Writer
This is beautiful! Thank you. I hate how sexuality is treated so obscurely in education. I was never taught anything except boys and girls, how I could only think of boys romantically. And no one ever told me that no one even has to be a boy or a girl - I was always just told to be a girl and like boys. This poem hit me hard, wow...sorry for the rant
Reply
:iconhey-there-blue-eyes:
~hey-there-blue-eyes Feb 2, 2013  Hobbyist General Artist
It's fine! I don't mind people posting long comments. I'm so glad it got through to you, it really means a lot to get feedback like this. Thank you. :)
Reply
:iconcreampuffluvr:
~creampuffluvr Feb 2, 2013  Hobbyist General Artist
This is really beautiful and well written with an amazing message
Reply
:iconhey-there-blue-eyes:
~hey-there-blue-eyes Feb 2, 2013  Hobbyist General Artist
Thank you so much. :)
Reply
:iconmscarolsantos:
~mscarolsantos Jan 30, 2013  Student Digital Artist
Wow, bless this
Reply
:iconhey-there-blue-eyes:
~hey-there-blue-eyes Jan 30, 2013  Hobbyist General Artist
Aww, thank you. :)
Reply
:iconmandymullins2:
*MandyMullins2 Jan 29, 2013
I like this :)
Reply
:iconhey-there-blue-eyes:
~hey-there-blue-eyes Jan 29, 2013  Hobbyist General Artist
Thank you! :)
Reply
:iconmandymullins2:
Mood: Love *MandyMullins2 Jan 30, 2013
You're welcome! :D
Reply
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