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at 18your body is a language only you can speak,
so please excuse this foreign curiosity.
“i am an island girl.”
does the ocean ever become a pain?
do you argue zephyr winds, are you burdened
by the weight of western depressions?
do you sieve your sand-skin for finer crystals
have you ever caught a fisherman’s prayer with a kiss?
do you suicide yourself in the attic of your throat
when you fuck through currents and frequencies,
when you exile your voice for being a siren’s unquiet tease?
island girl, are you ever asked about the sky?
do you tell yourself that stars are the dancing children
of some other galaxy, do you paint your face to fossilize your beauty?
you say, you are addicted to drugs for their skeletal formulae,
that they numb the bones of your fractured mornings, but tell me lady:
do you count the number of times you pearl your teeth or silk your hair
when you are scared, when you remember the bruised rose left bare
by playing another man's eden?
on martyrdomwhat did you think would happen?
when december mourned chemical snow
in the eye of a telescope, the rounded bill-
when cheap thrills triumph white-knuckle sobriety
(seaworthiness, peaks and bellies):
this is the ache of living, the hurt of becoming.
this is massacring the stations of breath
in your chest, seasons in retrograde at full bloom.
this is static relief, conquered by backing winds
and cold front at ease.
and do you really think
if gods had mercy, they’d be gods at all?
when being a self-same savior means expunging the fever
fitful, debating winds to knock out your electric wires
and raise the pressure, to save yourself?
they say, here at sea we open sleep,
bear witness to a casketed sky unburied, undone.
before that, they warn that having your life taken
isn’t the same as being killed,
and like a shipwreck, we die seeking to sail ourselves.
on unrelenting, tireless lovein this version, the trees survive
softly exiting the stations of breath.
somewhere, he opens his throat and claims the dark vowelled sky
and you reword god damning the sin of ink
when the movement of poetry within my body exhausts the moans
of inundated eyes impregnated by some other night.
tonight, tongue the quiet:
we pray the water's speeches against the oddity of light,
flood the dialect between ossified bones of grief
praise the good lord on idled knees
tonight, we levy the error of unbeing youth
and plague illiterate wars echoing tireless,
when i stimulated the prayers of rib-beat
when i licked the temple of my teeth,
speed pushed my fingers shaped like confessionals
clasped holy, carved my throat to fixing-
lover; i did this for the anthem of your eyes,
the feel of strangled feet crushing the fame of stars
for the glow of streetlight worship, for the moons
of your crooning throat, for the halls of your arms,
the strayed revels of your arms,
lover: you manufactured a god out of the drugs i used
and had me addicted to the divine, to the dignity of music
you pressed in my direction: just what i am, hallelujah,
marijuana, day and night-
lover, i fell in love with your culture
that preached the real definition of dusked kneecaps,
the plea of closeted throats, the whisper of bless,
unlearning how to say please god in borrowed tongue,
i fell in love with your attention, nervous grace
lover. i levied the rubble of my sins
diaryi thinned recall,
strangled memory until she screamed black
or blue, strung her source of voice along
the willowed incline of vein to wrist and down
let the curl thirstily imply
just how cut it is to pain in numbers:
one scar for extravagant wine dates, three
for the number of times we fucked crying,
eight for forgotten promises of ever after
i heard a sordid song in your tallied matchstick
bones, victorian in beauty & proper repression
of the bloody details like a bruise we push beneath
our hollow skin with dirty fingernails
see, the past is not a headless infant with knives for
playful fingers, though it is not to say
that cribs or birdcages hold anything more than
what we leave them to engulf
i swallowed you whole, ocean— basked by the enchantments
of soft-spoken life, bathed by neurotic erosion.
they taught me that the cleansing of your body now
fades the transient you of yesteryear, speak in familiar tongue:
bathroom stall mirages of rounds, clocks, convey
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Lilyas has dedicated herself to making our community a brighter place with her vibrant artwork and infectious enthusiasm for interacting with others in our community. It has certainly paid off, as many deviants flock to her page on a daily basis to let her know how much of an inspiration she is. We absolutely agree, and couldn't let all that hard work go without recognition, so it's with great pride that we bestow the Deviousness Award for March 2014, to ... Read More