Spilled Ink (Currently undergoing updates.)

tempest-at-noon:

Bodies dripping yellow,
gold,
lantern faces burning
warm-breathed glow,
searing ruddy cheeks
in the middle where 
palms are gentle for
the first time since 
the light was stolen
from their homes.

Their cotton were 
hastily stitched in
broken-glass shops,
torn at the seams 
where fingers scraped
against thighs, so
they left their clothes
home in Denmark
because it was much
too warm here, in
the summer, and
they were told to 
keep the luggage
light.  

The papers told them
to hide so they stashed
their touches away
behind closed doors
to the annexed room,
smuggling sugar for
their sweet, sanguine
tongues like the rebels
they fell in love as.

Their breaths stepped
in line behind the 
soldiers outside 
since adrenaline
courses through veins
like the tea they’re
not allowed to buy,
and they’re making
love in the dark when
the light is off because
everyone wants them
dead. 　

tempest-at-noon:

I slipped
my name
between
your teeth
because 
you always
said that 
the sweet-
est things
were etched
into the 
insides of 
your cheeks. 

But you bit 
my bottom
lip because
you were
tired of
rum and
knew where
I hid the
vodka,  

and you
slipped
the tip
between
my legs.  

anacoluthiac:

A playwright would compose truthful soliloquies
limning the bruises left by strong, squeezing hands,
eternal burdens on tender pale skin from ages past.
But my cherished audience held no faith in these lines,
mistaking me for the actress I would never become.
They returned my words and I swallowed them down,
choking alone backstage.

But my love, I am so cold here in your arms now.
You give your heart to a starlet long laid to rest,
a performer whose breath was stolen by angry hands.
His fingers improvised, rewriting the happy ending
bitterly on her neck; her gasps for air, the final lines
as black spots eclipsed the bright spotlights.
Gone by curtain call.

rubbishbinangel:

I have scorch marks on my arms from trying to hold
The boy with the sputtering flame for a soul.
                                                 He named me Yesterday.
                                                 Carving the words into my skin with his smile.
Fingers already entwined with those
Of his new Today
                                Eyes seeking
                             A new Tomorrow.

Yesterday.
So similar to the girl he named Eternity
A day too late
                                As her parents tucked her in to sleep
                                Six feet underground.
Collar high to hide
Love bites of a home-made noose.
                                                                Bethany.
                                                                His Bethany no more.

He buried his heart there
In the dirt over Bethany’s grave.
                    In summer white heads of dandelions bloom
                    Seeds of wishes never wished. Seeds of wishes never coming true.
He ran his fingers over old stone
Her name so deep Time could never wear it away.
                                                Then he stood. Wiped fresh dirt from his knees
                                                And walked away.

No one would ever add up to Bethany.
But I came close.
                            When the lights were out he could almost believe she was me.
                            Shadows revealing the face he longed to see.

ineffabagel:

the moon wages cold war on lovers jilted by passing motorcades
wasting precious night light on sirens
spending far too little on the undisturbed lakes and the dewy skin of long-kept promises.
the night creases hills and faces like notebook paper
careless with the circles under your eyes
as if it wishes only to destroy the proof that you have loved me among these trees
laughing and night-new as the cold whispered your vices.
you would spit them back and lie beneath the unforgiving reflections of warmth
your hands grasping for shards of the grand ruined looking glass
and when sleep came at last you would taste the world’s venom on my lips. 

snowcrushkill:

You came down from your cloud
and kissed my tired eyes
whispered in my ear
“I hope wherever you’re headed, it’s better than here”

thank you 

paintmesecure:

I have offered
this flesh,
this heart,
this raw emotion,
and you are satisfied
with a broken promise.

You have sent the ocean
scurrying against my spine,
suffocating the bones
that would bare
all;
crumble under your
blood and skin.

I am exhausted;
leaving only my last
breath and
final words.

word-smithstress:

Pull these delicate words woven from

soft lace off my breath. Place them

under your tongue. Let them dissolve

into you. 

I’ve carefully crafted them

as if I sculpted them into a tiny clock.

Twisting the gears and tinkering with

the hands until they were just right.

Hovering over a table with a miniature

hammer lightly tap, tapping until late

into the night.

Pluck them like feathers from my back

just to make them useful

to you.

lowercases—capitals:

Purity is sanity.
Circles of cement snow
swimming through a poison coated dream

Lipstick stains tattooed under my skin
from a time when death was a catastrophe
Painting my skies an eternal maroon,
the color of your heart beating under the floorboards  

Choking on your own tongue
swallowing all of your vowels
and spitting out rearranged regrets

Remember the times
that we’d sit underwater
but surface before liquid could fill your lungs?
if you could go back
would you swallow the atmosphere?
or dig your own watery grave?

We still live under caves
Our dreams are still stapled to misery,
breathing in vertical horizons,
swallowing aubergine disasters.

Sandstorms still exist
under troubled tongues
and the water becomes tie-dyed
under the impression of collaged faith.

We continue to remember
that our smiles are extracted
from the reds on our wrists. 

tiwtw:

i have all these leftovers
of what i forgot to say to you
when we could stand each other
but i am so in —
i am still so in love with you
that it is unfair

where is poetry’s benevolence
if it is betraying me in all this honesty
that does not forget you
or forget your own cruel sincerity
on the night you thought was best
to tell me you were fine without me

so i dont know where this is going
except towards a space
where you continue to be absent.
i don’t know what i am writing
when i fill the blanks about you
and that is why
i love writing.

fiorello46:

She was like a frail shadow,
following your every little footsteps
as you took a walk under the bright, scorching sun.

You could see her, vividly,
but none of you could feel or touch;
still, all that matter was the attachment of the souls.

Together, you walked your life,
with her, who stayed loyal on your side,
continued the journey which now seemed to be thriving.

Night came in, and as darkness catches up,
you stood still, thinking it is the time,
you watched the shadow faded, got eaten up and vanished.

teardropsoup:

you wrap yourself with sugar,

seal yourself with plastic,

tell me you’re not a loader;

i’ll tell you i’m not a hoarder.