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SenescenseI aged half my life
in one evening:
landed on a fall moon,
full of red and the howl
of wolves.

Harbor womb to a fox
more wild than my birdhands,
my vernal equinox,
his twitter-pated harvest
moon.

feral child, disquiet;
I aged half my life,
wept fifty years;

birthed reincarnation,
hallowed redemption.
Decemberhe laid her life out in polaroid amid the dark blue tendrils of a dying december; it was all he had left after summer had taken the rest.
a town i don't want to call mineon the right of the turquoise green sign
that welcomes you to columbia,
there are two gas stations and a church.
on the left side, there’s a morgue.

when i was five years old, my father pulled over
and stopped on the side of the road while black car
after black car passed us, going the other way.
“did we know them?” i asked.
“no,” he said, putting the car in drive. “but someone did.”

at seven, mr. jimmy down at the ice cream shop
let me have free samples of all the new flavors he made
before he put them out to the public.
a favor, he called it, for his little henry.

(years later i would realize t
post meridiemi am no lionheart.
look closely. there are small cracks
along my fragile frame. where purple
and blue blossom underneath flesh,
and pink/white lines decorate hidden skin.
i am far from what you see.
tear the skeleton from his comfortzonei want to build a skyscraper, seventeen stories high
and fill each floor with a story from the people who never said goodbye.

i.
a middle child, born in 1994,
she always wanted to be loved the most
until she learned how to give a blowjob
in an alley behind Miss China’s Takeaway
at knife point.

ii.
she lost her childhood
to an ocean who always thought it was small
and never stopped pushing its borders.

iii.
he’s not sure how he’s supposed to live without her.
staring at the closed coffin, he loses the ability to want to.

iv.
it’s not fair, she thinks,
that the house creaks when she’s trying to sleep,
but when
i would say my father is a wari would say my father is a war horse but that is a failed symbol
because he has been dragged through the dirt as many times as this metaphor

i want to write in abstract like in a book of
contemporary poetry i bought over the summer;
it was all syllables and lines of 'talk talk talk' repeated over and over
i want to write something that describes how i feel without saying a word that describes it -
like:
dust and ache and tired and bone and overflowing and lonely and fuck and    .

i want to write poems that have meaning without being cliche i want poems
that defy grammar and space and time because when someone reads them, they become me
white noise.sometimes i turn off the greasy yellow lights and run the water lava hot.
the quiet porcelain is an untouched coffin
familiar as the look in your eyes.
i can hear my heart beat in my ears
and i stare at the ceiling until it darkens and blurs at the edges.
my body is heavy as lead
i cannot remember the weight of movement.
sometimes the closest i can get is the suicide between each breath
and the apology unspoken on the inhale.
my skin is a ladder i keep climbing,
i can see through the rungs to the fat cells that weigh down my bones.
sometimes,
my hand becomes his when it creeps uninvited over the landscape of my body
and across the staircase of my ribs.
i can't erase the feeling of his body pressed like a book
over my flower.
my head is white noise that bleeds red,
but i'm tired of all the blood.
tired of all the memories like channels
i keep flicking past.
sometimes i wonder if i cut enough slack in my skin,
              &
starsi pray that someday soon, in a lonesome winter, your bones will cease to ache.
regrets will no longer break your morals like glass figurines,
you will not ask God to pardon your sins.
you will forgive yourself.

i hope, for your sake, that your butterfly-flutter eyes
will only be dampened with tears worthy of shedding.
your glory will shine out of those 2 crystal windows
and you will finally know what freedom feels like.

one day, in the midst of a dreary december, i wish for your wings to open wide
and carry you to heights far past any you have ever experienced.
your lungs will become blooming forests
with snippets of poetry carved into
001   i am a whirlwind of
     bruised knees
       (purple)

     an aching heart
      (dark blue)

     twisted guts
        (red)

          &
  a regret that could
   crumble mountains.
  (green-green-green)
the city of AtlantisIt's 3:45 in the morning
and I find the world
half-asleep
underneath the ocean.
For the love of birdsThree little birds pitch on my doorstep.
I keep them in a jar
because
nothing I have is truly mine.

I am only the lonely,
waiting for it to come back to me.
Save yourselfill be the smoke blackened beauty
tarnishing silver stars that fall from my moonlit eyes
until they are as dark and dull as me.
and you can be the charcoal covered queen,
painting pictures with the ashes
of a fire in your eyes that shined like gold once.
smoking in the dark, you make your paints
from your cigarette stumps and bruises
gathered from bar fights and grabby men.
no one knows pain better than a woman or a burn victim,
and we been both.
one for always and one just once or twice.
do you think that you could guess which one i am tonight?
i laid awake and listened to you talk for hours,
do you think that maybe you've said enough?
you
Earl Greyit catches her eye as she wraps bone-cold fingers around her fifth, chipped mug of tea. squinting past the billows of steam rising from her cup, she picks you out from amongst the fog and dusts you down; the dry, ashen heat of her left palm a testament to your misery.
she has always had a penchant for bringing home strays like yourself and you wonder if maybe you're just another experiment, another ghost boy set to sailing on her earl grey oceans, but you aren't. you're set to be more than that; you're set to be her navigator.
A Miscarriage of Justicebetween empty breasts
&
collar bone
promises
you wait out
her life line
in 
heavy-lidded interim
bad days.on my bad days,
i open notebooks like bibles and hold pens like lifelines.
    i keep opening the book of my memories
  just to see if it still leaves a bruise.
tonight,
i am covered in the bruises of your hand
    tonight, 
your ghost is in my bed. i can't sleep there,
so again-
             again i find myself miles from home
wishing on stars i can't see 
    and spitting memories into the ocean like watermelon seeds.
  i sit on my longboard like driftwood and send my shivers into texts
like letters i never should have mailed.
on my bad days,
i wear cuts like ropeburn,
like i just don't know when to let go.
   i get lost inside the sadness and hold tea thats long since gone cold
as hours escape like small birds set free.
  i forget to open the blinds
and paint my fingernails black
      and stare at the too-big numbers aligned on the scale i can't stop stepping on.
my th
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More from *your-methamphetamine

a smear of electronsif there was ever a state known to be corporeal, i was far from it.

my mother brought me wrapped in a black and red striped bandana because the cab had an accident and she couldn't afford to lose more blood just for my grandparents to see my face when i was born. the doctor strongly refused to let her but.. where else do you think my insanity comes from?
they weren't pleased, they weren't shocked, they just stared at a ruffled, discarded piece of harshly dyed cloth and failed to understand what she was trying to make them see. they shuffled and dropped me but never knew they did, even when the thud echoed and stopped my virgin heart.

thoug
burning in your heartplease understand that i have wanderlust for reasons that is anything but lovely or beautiful. i am too heavy on the inside, and my outside is starting to split but this heaviness has a name and a physical being and i can't help but want to put as much distance between us as we can until he's not down the road and i can't reach him even if i wanted to.
but it's probably because i still want to and i find desire caressing my finger tips with alpine nectar and breathing on my neck with the heat of the sahara.
maybe wanderlust is just not wanting you.
theres no way its that simple, that i could catch a train or fly as far away as all my savings could take me and fall in love with new curves, new arches to memorize and erase yours. or maybe i could just get so lost that i don't know anything anymore. forgetting myself means forgetting you.
i hope you know you were a product of this too. i found you twelve decades ago in my head, when i wanted new springs to taste and found a lullaby in you
remunerationthere were dreams of abasement, tearing up at the thought of
the noxious corners of your eyes. i saw them at a glance and fell
headfirst in the Styx, catching billowing waves of uncertainty and
heartache. they crashed with a decade-begrudged mind that was far
from healing -- far from me.

                    and though the fall was abrasive and the
                    waves, their own harangue, their heartache
    &#
viral survivalthat's it, i found my muse
in a membrane fold of your
dying mitochondria -
70-s ribosomal displeasure found me
sneaking in more alcohol
in your sleep

sweet little plasmolamellas showed
signs of immunity;
no labels of self, they
didn't even try, when
time was ticking
and phagocytosis began abnormally.

clocks counted backwards
it's supposed to be normal
the cancer you called me
the antigen you call me
the syndrome you
address me as
is no longer on an envelope

just dying under the surface

it's withholding action
just resting in the lymphatics
staying far away
from cardiac territory
but finding unrhythmic peristalsis
to
bokehhey sweet sour
little bokeh lights
i've been going blind
watching you tonight
so slow down
my head feels numb
against the petty
woes of the sun

i have watched you shimmer,
timid and shy
and heard you roar
against a violent sky
no stains of war
just pretty bokeh lights
out of focus
and out of sight

hey hot cold
little bokeh lights
i've been calling you
every night
auroras grew bland
colors lost muse
now i only find
sadness profuse

i have called moons
his name and told
all my sorrows
to a lightning bolt
and though they say
i have not been grudged
i still betrayed
grew cold and judged

all hands that straightened
blue and gold are not just colorsshe had been blue-sighted
since
dawn cracked her forehead.
it was the dress she wore on his funeral
the color of her school flag
the shine in her father's eyes;
she waited in blue and gold.

no, she refused to set a bar
because
life didn't just come to her.
she earned her place
in her mother's womb
when each blood vessel questioned her
each nerve ending, if she could live
and each antibody, if she was worth it.

see, she doesn't need new dresses.
she has a memory
for each of hers in her locked closet.
she may not wear all of them
(and most she cringes at the sight of)
but her heart
jumps enough
every time bits of her old

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This is just. I don't even remember why I wrote this, to be honest. I think it was because I was overdosing with Ghost in the Shell, I think? Anyway, thoughts?
(I won't scrap this now)
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:iconinthestarrynightsky:
~InTheStarryNightSky Feb 16, 2013
Amazing. My favorite line has got to be "Look at the starry rain and smile at the comet shower." but the line about Aiedail is a very close second. Simply amazing, and beautiful job as always Cassie.
Reply
:iconyour-methamphetamine:
*your-methamphetamine Feb 16, 2013  Student Writer
Thank you so much, Aiedee. <3
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:iconinthestarrynightsky:
~InTheStarryNightSky Feb 19, 2013
You're welcome. :aww:
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:iconadrolyn:
Mood: Wow! *Adrolyn Feb 5, 2013  Hobbyist Digital Artist
Ghost in the Shell: SAC rocks.
Reply
:iconyour-methamphetamine:
*your-methamphetamine Feb 5, 2013  Student Writer
:love:
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:iconvioletense:
~violetense Feb 5, 2013  Student Writer
Excellent.
I especially like the implication that the adressed subject may not be quite human: that humanity is something that escapes even us.
Reply
:iconyour-methamphetamine:
*your-methamphetamine Feb 5, 2013  Student Writer
Thank you, dear.
Reply
:icon0hgravity:
*0hgravity Feb 5, 2013  Hobbyist General Artist
ah, I really like the image of shutters on a soul and I think that is a lovely line to start the whole piece with as it really sets up the tone nicely.

The spacing works so well here to create a sense of quiet and thoughtfulness like the words themselves, like the questions scattered between.

while I will not kill you messily with a spoon if you scrap this, I will be sad to see it go into hiding.
Reply
:iconyour-methamphetamine:
*your-methamphetamine Feb 5, 2013  Student Writer
I love your comments so very much. Thank you kindly.

I just removed that. I do not wish to sadden anyone or be killed with a spoon(?).
Reply
:icon0hgravity:
*0hgravity Feb 5, 2013  Hobbyist General Artist
ah, I'm very glad to hear that. very welcome.

haha, thank you. so violent she is, haha. you two are a riot.
I thought it funny and fitting to see your submitted works side-by-side this morning in my inbox.
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