tier 15

they told me that if i wrote a thing, i would die!

[lynxtree-blog]

7.15.13

you speak like smoke and i choke on it

[antirealistic-blog]

7.15.13 w o r d t e a

choking choking choking on tough thoughts and eyeballs whispering words swimming in tears hot and salty down her face vertigo and the floor wailing coming closer to take her in the headache closes closes closes and she is hurting she loses her words in ibuprofen

[antirealistic-blog]

7.9.13 Pedestal

she reads words and words and words and forgets to think about them as words. they put her in so much pain. everyone is so damaged and she wants to know so she can help -- and really.. really, how ridiculous is that? how many times has she painted herself outside the story, as some detached, unfeeling being? (authoress, narrator, artist, actor, liar, unreal, fixed points.) why is it worth it to pretend she isn't all twisted up inside, veins in knots and thoughts trying to slither up the aquarium walls of her mind? she makes the worst friends, because they are the ones who can make her stop caring.

[antirealistic-blog]

7.6.13 Art

i try really hard not to hate words, because words didn't ask to exist or be used.

but i hate the word "art."

nobody can decide what it means people fight over it one man will claim something is art and another claims it isn't. people have died just for art.

i've made an executive decision that art and love are the same thing.

[antirealistic-blog]

7.6.13 Dog Brain

i like to think that, were i a dog, i would be the happiest damn dog on this entire planet.

because human life? shit kinda sucks.

but who knows what my dog brain would think of dog life. i mean, i guess having to pee outside would be kinda inconvenient from time to time.

[antirealistic-blog]

7.6.13

actually naming poetry is so old school.

william shakespeare was way ahead of his time.

[hydromaniacs]

10.15.12 That is Quite (un)Becoming

[antirealistic-blog]

when i hit the shower, i have this horrible habit of falling apart. my eyeballs roll forward and out of my head so i catch them and toss them into a cup on the edge of the bathtub. then my knees decompose and collapse, leaving me reeling falling onto the hard floor. my skin begins to break apart and wash down the drain in papery little scales. i feel myself rip in half, a familiar sensation, as my iceberg innards spill out to melt in the hot water’s onslaught. all of my cavities flood. the water there freezes into new life, new scrap, leaving the inside of my bleached cardboard body pink and clean. my muscles re-spin from threads of fresh web and my hair re-crafts in gauze. when i pull myself up gingerly, careful not to break such new parts, i pop my eyes back into my glass skull. good evening, myself.

[hydromaniacs]

10.17.12 You Speak French Like an American

[antirealistic-blog]

today is a tired day.

words tumble out of people’s mouths like balls of string that spill out onto the ground and tangle with one another. everyone keeps tripping over them and it’s hard not to because there are so many overlapping and curling into fancy little sentences. all these woven colours staining the damp concrete. people lazily toss around ideas and questions like it’s some sort of game. i drink up the words in the book i’m reading like they’ll give me majesty. nobody snaps. 

[greyfaerie-moved-deactivated201]

x.x.xx

[antirealistic-blog]

She leafs through your heart like pages of an old book, all overwhelming gentleness and loose curls, and god, the way her eyes lose all of that acerbity they usually carry, you’d almost think she was worried. Or regretful.

Of course, months and months of inaction aren’t anything she can take responsibility for alone, and you’ve told her that. She’s told you that you wouldn’t have liked her before, and as strikingly clear it is that she doesn’t like herself much now, she must really have something against that old self.

You consider it might have something to do with a short plaid skirt and long black socks.

[greyfaerie-moved-deactivated201]

x.x.xx Writeworld Prompt

[antirealistic-blog]

"We aren’t really people," you whisper in his ear, squeezing his hand. He glances over at you, smiles, and asks you to say it again. “We aren’t really people." You grin this time and let out a breathy laugh, and then you’re both laughing, and nobody around you notices.

They aren’t really people, either.

[greyfaerie-moved-deactivated201]

x.x.xx Library

[antirealistic-blog]

You read the word “regrets" next to two neat little numbers and breathe a sigh of relief. “You too, huh?" You say over coffee the next morning, forgetting the name of the fictional cafe and that you’re alone with a lukewarm, pathetic mug of coffee sitting on a cardboard box.

Jesus Christ, you’re going to need to get out more. You’ll lose your mind if it’s like this all the time, and you’ve always hated the word “crazy."

[greyfaerie-moved-deactivated201]

x.x.xx

[antirealistic-blog]

You begin to think of her as The Girl Who Cried Los Angeles.

She’s knee-deep in boots that make her look a few inches taller and sure claims that she’ll be an actress. Half of her time is spent talking about how she’s going to “get out of this ratty little town, y’know — we’re headed to L.A., over holiday break." How she’ll “get tons of auditions there, now that we’ve got an agent and everything."

She comes back after the break, of course, duller and wearing more make-up. It takes her until the last month to start saying she’s moving again, and then you can’t help but snort and watch for her (most likely paler, more reserved) return at the beginning of the next year.

It’s weird when she doesn’t come back. You hope she was telling the truth about moving this time.

[greyfaerie-moved-deactivated201]

x.x.xx

[antirealistic-blog]

"You look beautiful," she says, and I catch —

— a tone in her voice of undeniable honesty. I think I blush as it runs through my head that I’ve never heard anyone say that aloud to me before. I try to stammer out a reply, and she seems unconcerned when she asks if it was too much. I try to deny that. It’s odd to think she believes what she said wholeheartedly.

— the way her lips curve minutely upwards. I smirk in reply. “To you," I say simply. She was telling the truth, I think, but it was a truthful opinion. I wonder if there’s something behind that. People will speak lies endlessly if it benefits them.

— a glimpse of myself in the mirror. Eh. Maybe not beautiful, but good enough to turn a girl to stone. Good enough to destroy someone. I return my gaze to her and shrug, as if to say,I could look better. Is that what she gets when she translates my gesture, or are we speaking different languages?

[antirealistic-blog]

archived 11.1.13

i don’t think i’ve ever known someone like you. someone who settles into my words and my quirks, insecurities and woes. i’m afraid our friendship is so special and novelty it’ll shatter if i drop it or if it falls off the shelf.

i don’t think i’ve ever known someone like you. who speaks volumes in sentences and gives advice in jokes, who i imagine i could be purely myself with.

[antirealistic-blog]

archived 13.3.13

i’m here for three a.m. conversations when our voices are low but we’re too tired to whisper, and we say (un)important things that we w(ill)on’t remember, come morning.

[antirealistic-blog]

archived 22.3.13

but, in the end, i am a science experiment gone wrong. as a construct i am the result of so many misfires and imbalances i am a malfunction that found a voice on the street and kept it.

[antirealistic-blog]

archived 28.3.13

i was going to write a poem about two separate words that meant the same thing, but i’ve forgotten which words i was using. this is happening more and more often.