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Good to gone.
sweat and fall out of place
for more than a year or two
and have the pleasure of
watching everything lovely
return to dust
your chamomile tea will go cold
on the window sill
and your childhood blanket
will be blunted to grey
your twin soul will suffer
and What Sarah Said
will mean too much
your stash will dwindle to stems and
the last drop
will dry on the bottom of the bottle
and you will feel real vicelessness
and be proven wrong again
and breathe anyways.
:iconbleedingprophecies:BleedingProphecies 9 16
The fall.
Anxiety imagining
top and bottom
molars as mortar
and pestle and grain;
I rehearse sound sleep
lullabyed by
the pop and squish
of oxidizing pipe dreams
Tarnished by
all I thought
I would do by 20,
squeal and spatter
like bacon grease
on bare skin.
You've probably seen
my heart around
on the back of milk cartons,
lost in black and white
and memory more like sepia,
I tuck shades of grey
under my chin
to offset the shivers.
:iconbleedingprophecies:BleedingProphecies 8 12
The angry sea.
Rag doll heart:
stress and fray
and tired snaps
and fabric sighs;
I would be lying
if I said
I felt full
and feel worse
if I indulged
in his snores
for dessert.
It’s the stomach drop
of ice cream
the pyre pier.
I crave most
when uncraved;
I talk to a child
and my words
tremble and fracture
like she’s god.
Yours pirouetted
on my eyelids and
I slept splendidly,
soles sinking into
the tiptoed sands
of star fields,
ethereal in their sable blacks
and mercurial casts
of cosmos.
Two somebodies
have my face memorized.
We squint against dawn light
that will reach his stop
in an hour’s time
and you ask
me why I look so sad.
:iconbleedingprophecies:BleedingProphecies 13 3
Help me,
if you can reach,
to staple-gun these
thoughts to the darker
parts of a head
that idolizes the old
that idolize the dead
Nature and nurture
exchanged numbers and now
I gots some splain'in to do.

Dawn is not a brand of soap
we can scrub away
It will come, it will have its way
Coax me to sleep
where my blood
can percolate on beach stones,
where those blues
can toss and turn me
into maude
Triple the threat
and mark it down
A watery grave
that will resound
Rises rising to erase
the days dearest to us,
Each wake leaving stranger times
In its wake
And then there were none
as the seasons conspired
to rob me of my innocence
Somebody tossed their Nikes
over these wary capillaries
straining the connection
between Head and Heartspace
The coffee- bean-color
of my soul
The testament to these miles
We lay down in trying times
and wake to chaos
lapping at our toes,
eroding us out to sea
And caramelize
those that harmonize
Beside the sea
Within you and within me
:iconbleedingprophecies:BleedingProphecies 15 13
Lost and Found.
Their wooden hair comb
sorts cobwebs from curls and
warm water coaxes tears from lashline ledges,
their swollen eyes soften just so.
Born from the rim of
fishbowl made ocean,
finally to forget
how to gasp and kick.
They take residence again
in more familiar matter
behind eyes that see for us, now,
And their voice comes raspy and new
and crescendos to solid and always-was.
Someone new takes up residence besides
and I am certain every utterance
will reach the place you went
to kiss the petal faces
of every star.
:iconbleedingprophecies:BleedingProphecies 14 6
Avoca, NY.
Pastel sunshine and you
take shelter on my shoulder
in the same grass bed
where deer once snored and
where we have devoured
uncountable cosmic confections
like patchy new peregrines
open-beaked beneath
a pink and panicking worm,
recalling what it meant
to be something so trivial
and so vast.
Lay on your back
swollen with wine
and let inebriation
dip and spin you sweetly;
feel the breathlessness
of every drowning it took
for gills to evolve.
Practice outward piety
and think in sinspeak
like godly men do,
wonder quietly at what might
still be holy.
Baptized in rain from sunless Sundays
and a lack of faith in Sundays, anyway,
breathe the still-hot ash of always and cough up
from coffee-stained lungs
the flame of never.
And when we perish in the way
only the phoenix used to know,
sputter and thrash
the taste of my tobaccoed lips
from your tongue,
wipe the flecks of my toothpaste
from your bathroom mirror
and use that same screen
to watch your body
make small talk with a str
:iconbleedingprophecies:BleedingProphecies 12 11
Just breathe until I
can shake the
television static out
of my legs and
make a red-eye swim to
where you are.
Or, as a runner-up, to
the place where
your body sits with
leather looping the arm
I slept under,
opposite fingers entertaining
an empty syringe and
eyes full of the
stuff black holes eat.
As pin collisions
hot as starlight
brand and singe the
very tips of my toes,
my lips will stumble through the
familiar steps in a bout of
narcotically induced and assigned
brilliance on
their way to contact through
the veil of inebriation,
torn back to clutch at you every
time noon and midnight tsk
and tug at one another's zippers in
a sagging truckbed long after
mid's beloved and
much-too-young twilight
expected him home.
My hands will preserve
your contour under wax and
hang out-of-focus Polaroids
of your asymmetric smile
with pushpins and yarn and
newspaper clippings then, and
your steadying breath will
gently take down and stack
all of my
'Posted' signs beside
the moth balls.
:iconbleedingprophecies:BleedingProphecies 12 12
So here I sit
taking a seam ripper
to my cross stitched heart
pulling pulmonary blues
from their assigned seats
and picking at the fray
and wondering where
those hands might have wandered
while they
let your keypad
start its very own
dust collection
you have visited
a dozen beds
in my fucked up little head
in your silence
in my time alone
and now sick swells
in the throat you like
to squeeze
as I gnaw at the corner of my lip
as I beg my thoughts to pull over
as I rake my nail bed with my opposite thumb
and wait.
:iconbleedingprophecies:BleedingProphecies 11 10
I am an American and I ache.
I am an American,
who watched a baby girl
toddling shiny-eyed
across the Debate Watch Party floor
and felt proud that she would not remember
a world before a woman President in America
and cannot bear to imagine what her future might hold
just hours later.
I am an American,
who rebuilt her sandcastle of hope
after the Primary waves
and cannot recognize it
after the storms of today.
I am an American,
paralyzed with fear for
the black, Latino, Asian,
Muslim, and LGBTQ+ people
who I love as my brothers and sisters—
for everyone.
I am an American,
wondering if one day
I will see the man who
sexually assaulted me
giving his acceptance speech.
I am an American,
for whom the next 4 years
suddenly seems like
a very, very long time, but
I am not an American
who will flee to Canada
or skip the polls
next time around.
I will be right here
in a country I still love
because America
never stopped
being great.
:iconbleedingprophecies:BleedingProphecies 34 27
What never wept.
With all the ferocity of girlhood
and a bucket of black
I could not lift
I brushed over the life
of your insides
to look like Home.
Don't let me roll you up
in my menthol disposition;
snarl, instead,
at my sourness
as you prune
my sisters and I
from paved places
beside trash bins.
You taste me
and ignite my scalp,
you drag and cough and
I disappear.
Even the timeliest trips
take us to temporary spaces.
Cradle these stillborn soliloquies
as they slide from my lips
and grow stiff,
help me
to memorialize
what never wept.
:iconbleedingprophecies:BleedingProphecies 16 14
I always knew
you had been shaped
by the hands
of all of your
record stratches.
My weather balloon lungs
are brimming
with hell breath
so perhaps
it's only natural
that I cry in front
of you,
whose face
has always countered
my gaze with
all the colors of sunset.
I call you God
without mention
of license and registration,
which should be stored
in a glove compartment
without gloves
and reached for 'slowly,
because you know
how it is these days.'
'Come on,
my camera takes
better mental pictures
than you
and you're able
to feel.'
I've give nearly anything
to have you let my roots
drink in the way you look
while you're drooling on the pillow.
You say my
name at the worst time
and the echo swells,
a bubble
behind immaculate
'A snake could kill you
in fewer bites,
but I can hold
my sweaters up.'
'I've been framed,'
cried a man
already behind glass.
We are all squinting
in a dusk so dark
that we find ourselves
catching bullets
in lieu of
lightning bugs.
:iconbleedingprophecies:BleedingProphecies 12 6
I am resolved in my dissolving.
:iconbleedingprophecies:BleedingProphecies 17 12
We will be born of imagery:
my eyes will be the color
of ivy just learning
to crawl,
your hair the shade
of freshly upturned earth.
We will trudge along the logical plot line:
our gazes will meet across
a crowded subway car
and our exit will just so happen
to be the very last one
and we'll make small talk
as the car empties each night
and by the end of summer
we will go back to your apartment
and make love
and perform our rendition of
the Ask and Answer
the next year.
We will fit neatly into simile and hyperbole:
your arms will be like
the tides when they rock me
and my kiss will be
as essential to you as air.
We will end in metaphor:
without your laughter
I will be a child
alone in a crowded amusement park
as the sun begins to sink.
I will write us down
as poetry
and somebody else
can struggle
to sift the truth
out of our
:iconbleedingprophecies:BleedingProphecies 21 29
How today tastes.
All I [was/am/will be] exists
within a
smeared display case.
I catch glimpses
of relief
between the greasy palmlines
left by lookers-on,
gasp with fiberglass lungs
that cannot,
without splintering,
churn such stale air,
sweat in the company
of nothingness
most stifling
under these spotlights.
I am
exposed as museum fodder,
regarded and disregarded
in the same hour,
distressed as a doe
with ears pricked
toward tire cries,
with every capillary taut enough
for a tight-roper
to tip-toe with arms out
from left heel to scalp,
all of this
on the tip of
a long-bitten tongue
convinced of its unworthiness
to be helped.  
:iconbleedingprophecies:BleedingProphecies 19 13
ID. by BleedingProphecies ID. :iconbleedingprophecies:BleedingProphecies 9 0
Mature content
What comes after ''really like''? :iconbleedingprophecies:BleedingProphecies 17 9



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oviedomedina Featured By Owner Mar 22, 2017
Thank you for the favorite!
ShadowIsStillAlive Featured By Owner Mar 1, 2017  Hobbyist General Artist
Thanks for the watch!
ShadowIsStillAlive Featured By Owner Feb 28, 2017  Hobbyist General Artist
Thanks for the llama badge!
tirasunil Featured By Owner Feb 28, 2017  Hobbyist Writer
Thank you for the watch. :)
oviedomedina Featured By Owner Feb 14, 2017
Thank you for the favorite!
BleedingProphecies Featured By Owner Feb 14, 2017  Student Writer
No problem! It was a beautiful piece! :heart: 
Lugia20711 Featured By Owner Jan 19, 2017  Student Writer
Thanks for the llama!
BleedingProphecies Featured By Owner Jan 19, 2017  Student Writer
No problem! :D 
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nightshade-keyblade Featured By Owner Jan 10, 2017  Hobbyist Writer

Hope you're having a good day!
BleedingProphecies Featured By Owner Jan 10, 2017  Student Writer
Thanks very much! It has been a lovely birthday! 
oviedomedina Featured By Owner Jan 10, 2017
Happy birthday!
BleedingProphecies Featured By Owner Jan 10, 2017  Student Writer
Thanks very much! :) 
LadyLincoln Featured By Owner Jan 10, 2017  Hobbyist Writer
Happy birthday, dearheart. :heart:
BleedingProphecies Featured By Owner Jan 10, 2017  Student Writer
Thank you, lovely. :heart: 
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