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Death of a GodI am what I fight for...
Honest and immortal beauty.
And i am what i worship:
And men who won’t worship me back.
My mirrors reflect my beliefs-
The ones I’ve held since i was a child;
The ones i should have run from.
The ones that imprisoned and defiled
And oppressed me.
My mirrors reflect the people
who forced me to believe at my own risk.
Risks i took before i was old enough to
No one but me could see how my loss of faith
is a gaining of freedom.
How those same people watched,
Widened their eyes and bowed their heads,
As i undressed in front of my latest
best friend and shamelessly denied their holy spirit.
How i hungered for sin and succumbed to shame.
How, spitefully, i shed my clothes,
And with them, my past lives.
And how flawless and powerful i still am.
I single-handedly proved them wrong
and killed their god.
Now They don't know whether to
thank me or hate me-
But no matter.
My mirrors reflect a prod
sex in your wordsI trip over
the sex in your words
it dancebeats each syllable
into the rhythm of submission
to your desire
of thrusting or being thrusted
plain letters draped
in shades of sultry black
only visible to the connoisseur
of linguistic lust
while virgin eyes remain blind
to their deflowering
the twist of your subconscious power
to exude your curves
in the guise of thoughtful
three's a crowd.i was married to the thought of separation
long before i flirted, & became caught,
with ideas of right & wrong
& afore i danced to my own song,
down the line of who i am
& who i wanted to be.
what's normality but routine,
& who's to judge what they've not seen
inside the home constructed
from the labour
of tremoring muscles of morality,
atrophying at the mere suggestion
of surgery, & resembling
a cheated presentation
i protected your secrets
from the cancerous spread of shame,
yet i allowed it to consume me &
that i couldn't keep myself
from the grasps of your toxicity.
if children are a map of their parents,
then i am, in essence,
the child of the devil,
hoping for a miracle
so she can say the word
i so desperately crave
& i know that
actions speak louder than words
but love is blind & hate may be deaf,
but at least it's clear to see reason.
maybe silence isn't quite so golden
& maybe my actions could be spoken
as i pray her days cease feeling
like her ni
DiscreetWhat I miss most is not the sex
but the moments that slipped quietly by
like brushing our teeth together
in matching pajamas, you turning
to me and saying, pasty foam
running down your chin,
“You know what love is?
Love is being stupid together.”
Cloud in a Bottle 1Cloud in a Bottle 1
How is it your voice is a canyon which cuts
where you did not even speak, opening the rivers
of my lungs so they could cataract, could rage with breath
you breathed? That the rock swells of your ribs, washed
round and floating, met then barred the way with mine
so that my heart, turned to tides, could not slip by,
and beat against the walls, unanswered, ‘til it drowned?
And that I still don’t hate you, even now?
There’s all this nonsense of lips and bubbles, that’s fine;
still refuse drifts in one direction all the same, refusing—
shored up maybe by some reassuring echoes still unsung—
to sink, so like an opened blouse colored by brine, my hope
finds refuge at the highest point, and lays itself unlocked
on barren sand to fade, suffuse with light, the way all things
in the desert turn finally, achingly white.
the theatreit is a Tuesday afternoon
and I observe
the proscenium arch
of your spine.
I am separated from you
by several degrees,
a world and a half,
the ornate, sweeping divide
between watcher and watched
(and you've never cared
to break the fourth wall)
We're not grown-ups,
And we're not supposed to know how
This all works.
I'm okay with
making an idiot of myself in your arms.
After all, we're strangers,
We're not supposed to know
How to do each other's math.
You love me as much as
I like you.
It works because
in every other way
You have the upper hand.
Can you tell I've never done this before?
Just add water, sleepy arms,
And sharp-edged eyeglasses.
no one gives a shit about
How we met.
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scheinbar is a much-loved and well-known deviant. Just one look at her gallery, filled with enchanting photography, will have you mesmerized. A deviant for over 7 years, Christiane can always be found posting inspirational features as well as regularly commenting on other deviations and encouraging and empowering her fellow deviants. We are inspired and insist that you too stop by and congratulate ... Read More