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Miles BetweenSun rises again, miles between us remain unchanged
like rushing rivers and extended state lines, closer than hand.
How many days must pass until I see his face again and grasp
no longer cold, empty from dangling fingers. Left
to clutch, nails boring deep into palms, aching to brush
against his chest as a new sun rises, miles between us remain
distant as memories of smoldering eyes. A sliced
and split photograph cannot compare so I will wait
for the day until I can see his face again and kiss
those sweet parted lips, tempting, burning red.
They danced against my tongue, leaving behind taste of sugar
into the morning and rising sun where miles have changed
as our bodies curled underneath cotton sheets,
twisted and turned, conforming to our tender
entwine. How many days must pass until I wake up
to beaming bright lights through glass, sun
warming cheeks. Eyes flutter open, gazing at curled
hair, angelic expression and misty eyes. Sun rose, miles
between us faded, and the day I can his fac
Once MoreSoft satin caresses, sweet lips touch,
sending heat down my spine. Fingers
intertwine, brushing mouth, cheeks,
hair, leaving nothing behind. Desire
controls, your lust craving more,
hiding the picture. Moving lips
show mind’s hunger, representing
wavering ways. Sick of twisted motives,
such childish play, now say her name
once more, rekindling blazing flames.
Red drops of passion puddle upon floor,
draining white fingertips damp, speak
once more. Deepen fresh wounds
with twisted smiles. Say her name
once more, I dare to hear such sounds.
If not, hold your tongue, your eternal
peace, and never move those lips from mine.
Black VinesNear vibrant flowers, emerald vines
curl and crawl across covered meadows.
They embrace, black vines dancing
upon skin. Glorious body art.
Dark ink curls, blossoming first
flowers, flourishing sweet summer.
Yet tips bare brown fruit, withered
wrinkled skin as amber sheds life.
Ink fades grey, dancing patterns cease
as vines drop last fruit into fresh snow.
Resolutions"Camila, open your door, now."
The pounding shook my door against its frame and knocked the pencil out of my hands. I tried to pick it up off my desk but moved too fast,
knocking papers and pencils to the floor. I reached for my supplies when another shout hit my ears.
"Camila, I'm not going to repeat myself."
I grumbled under my breath, saying words I knew I couldn't repeat in a few seconds. I rushed off my seat and over to my closed door. The
pounding never died, leaving my ears throbbing. I covered my ear with one hand and opened my bedroom door with the other to see my mom glowering.
She stood over me, eyes boring into my own. Her lips mashed into a scowl. "You have been ignoring me for the last ten minutes. What are you doing here?"
I swallowed a large lump down my throat. "I-I-I was just-"
A gasp flew past her lips, interrupting me. She shoved past me and entered my room, eyes wide. I knew we were both staring at the same
thing: dozens of sticky notes against my walls.
UmbrellaRain poured from the grey clouds, drenching the brown soil. I watched the weather from the inside of my apartment, watching every drop as it hit the ground.
However, that wasn't the only thing that captured my eyes. Standing at the bus stop was a young man, looking in his twenties. He stood tall against the storm, holding a mere umbrella.
How it help up for this long was beyond me. The wind blew it inside out, leaving the man soaked. He had no reason to hold onto it anymore, yet his fingers wouldn't let go of the handle. He stood as a statue, waiting for the bus.
The rain kept falling.
OpenDark dingy dungeon, alive
with desire. Chains dig
into wrists, seeping
every last drop.
Eyes missing day light,
longing warm love against
Key resting on wooden table
top. Long ago did it call,
A message to the brokenYou drown yourself
in liquid sorrows,
letting the salty mess
burn your wounds,
and the sadness
to drip in your mouth,
consuming your words
and you say
you deserve the pain,
but I want to dry your face,
and whisper in your ear
how the clouds cry too,
while they hold such beauty,
and so do you.
Pretty metaphors are for pretty girlsI told you to stop
spewing pretty metaphors at me,
for with each elaborate comparison,
I feel a bit more
detached from this world
And maybe I don’t feel so strong at the moment,
but would you be
if you felt like the entire universe
was resting upon your shoulders,
and someone was just there saying:
But you’re stronger than the powerful beats
of a butterfly’s wings
And maybe I do need more confidence,
but would you exuberate it
when the part you hated most about yourself
were the freckles that have speckled your face for years,
and someone was just there muttering:
They’re not flaws,
but rather stars that form constellations
Yes, I can’t help but hate
all those unrealistic metaphors
you choose to pelt at me when I’m low,
yet the irony is,
I know that those beautiful words
are realistic in your eyes,
So I can’t hate you.
Stand Against SuicideI know the pain is perhaps unbearable,
But darling, please put down the blade.
Release your emotions through tears and smiles,
Rather than dreading these days.
Do it for the little girl, whose mother can’t be there,
Or for the boy whose father drank too much.
For the boy who can’t sit in elementary school,
Because the bruises from Daddy hurt to touch.
For the teenage girl lying face down in her bed,
Thinking, why can’t it all be done?
For the elderly man looking up at the stars,
Counting the days one by one.
Do it for the children who wonder, does it end?
For the ones who feel left on their own.
For the ones who think, maybe it wouldn’t be so hard
If I didn’t feel so left alone.
And finally, do it for one other person,
The person in front of these words.
Because you’ll never know how it gets better
When focusing on pain and hurt.
Live one more day, dear, for them and for you,
And I swear to you, problems will fade.
I know, for right now, it’s p
dark circlesi haven't slept well in 14 days
my eyes droop pretty colors
'50 shades of purple and grey,
they're bags and they're designer'
making jokes is how i cope
with chapped lips and constant chap-stick
it tastes like honey and mint
i laugh and say i'm addicted.
hooded lids and sleepy smiles
during lunch at subway
my friends ask if I'm okay
I say that I'm just tired.
but really when I see him with her
my heart sinks to the tiles
she's pretty and witty and sure as hell she can sing
and i'm just a loud bone-collector.
when I see her with him,
dancing and laughing and grinning,
the ring on her finger
laughs at my singularity.
for as much as i lie and as much as i try
my loneliness still creeps in,
because no matter how much they protest,
i'm still the lowly fifth-wheel.
walking behind them on sidewalks
that are wide, but built for four
smiles and laughs when they look back
but the frown creeps evermore.
pelvis peaks through paper-thin skin
and knuckles white and pale
my ribs are empty, my bo
Clear WristA clear wrist, barren of scars,
as opposed to skin sauntered in marks,
tells a trickier story than it's soiled and raw,
uncaring, unkempt counter part.
Bravery, I think it holds,
the strength to bare unimaginable loads
of pain and suffering through endless times,
and withstanding the agony of sleepless nights.
Some think it is fear, the reluctance to cut,
but I believe it opposite, it show courage and guts.
To bear your pain without a nick on your wrist,
is like a solider braving his terrain while being torn limb from limb.
Agonizing as it is, to hide your pain,
you do it so well, and no attention you'll gain.
At the end of the day, it's not cry for attention,
rather a cry for the victory that's silently mentioned.
Your scars are those not self inflicted,
and despite the gnawing intention,
to harm yourself and ease your pain,
the scars you earn are rightfully gained.
In a room of those who have jumped the gun,
and left traces of blood deep in their arms,
do not be tempted to do the sam
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