Story Poem - Tumblr Posts
Note to Others.
Don’t make me feel more sad
For feeling sad.
I can’t control my emotions anymore.
-E.S.
@sunkissed-summerdaze
i turn around
you watch my plait as i run
and am i laughing or crying?
no one knows
not even me
i'm losing sight of life
running away from everything
you chase me
calling out as i ignore you
the world is too much
and i am too little
and soon i'll be some myth
some local legend
the girl who couldn't take it
the girl who ran away
her plait flying in the wind
the bolter.
The White Hart
…In those days she resembled a white hart, pallid as bone, with eyes like glowing emeralds.
A ghost, some said, and certainly fay, but few were they that ever knew the truth of what she was. Most took her for a stag. But what they saw as antlers, broad and proud, were, in truth, branches.
Though rare, sightings of her sprouted like pokeweed in Autumn, when the trees made their fiery bed upon the forest floor.
Occasionally, brave warriors hunted her. Most came back, sullen and silent, a faraway cast to their eyes. Those that spoke told stories, and none were true, though true enough for men. Of course, she never doubted her own existence, and the stories that she told to a handful of stalkers ruined their hearts for all time. When the snows came, she was invisible, a niveous form, lithe and graceful, that melted into the frozen world. And, when her buds joined at last in Spring’s green fury, she would again become invisible, slipping softly away into Summer’s viridescent heat. It was in the times between when she felt naked and vulnerable, yet she loved the bright cool sadness of Fall Only then did she fear, and the sound of horns over horses and dogs drove her deep into the heart of the woods. But she was wise, and even brilliant men are utterly dim that cannot see magic in the weave of things. Cunning and fleet, no arrow had grazed her, nor trap was laid that had not been plainly seen. For her, it was always better (and safer) to remain hidden. Whenever some bold fool, arrow knocked, and string drawn, spotted her, they shouted in rage and mourned arrows lost in vain pursuit. In the towns, their tales became songs. They joined in a chorus about how she was slain by this man or that on such-and-such a day. To save reputations and doubt spare one’s skill, the hunter’s kill, it was spun, was tragically taken by some legendary highwayman or dour wolf. These stories made her laugh for there is freedom in death, especially when one yet breathes. It amused her that no one knew her name. Those who told stories were branded liars or madmen, but that never stopped their tongues from wagging. So rarely do men see what’s before them, and what is seen is often just themselves. These humans, she thought, would march off a cliff if they thought it would make them famous. The sane, she learned, are happy to dismiss the truth if it preserves their comfort. And that was how she liked it: safely hidden in the shadows of their denial, alone and free in the wildest places, a soul as old as the world was young.
© JM Tiffany
𝙏𝙝𝙚 𝙀𝙣𝙚𝙢𝙮 𝙒𝙞𝙩𝙝𝙞𝙣
Sleep drops away quickly as I wake to a strange pain. Something is... Wrong... What is this? There is a lump in my side. I slide my shirt up over the tender bulge. It itches. A sparking, insistent discomfort. There is a deep knot of burning pressure welling beneath a taught dome of skin. A nascent infection? No. Something more malignant and protuberant. I pick the sore. It breaks open. Teeth clenched, I tenderly spread the wound. It weeps a turbid fluid. Beneath, a spider-shaped mass of dark matter, metallic and appalling, is embedded and spreading. Wincing, I prod it, and feel it spasm. Black brachiating filaments spread menacingly, a thousand stygian serpents tracing nerves and veins with fabulous velocity. Screaming, I thrash, until overtaken and writhing in terror. Its sardonic pulse syncs with mine until an odd numbness replaces concern. I feel it absorbing me. Is this how the gazelle feels in the lion's jaws? I should be… afraid. I should be… But I am consumed by the amorphous narcosis of conjunction until, pale and drooling, my simian brain is joined in black noesis to tens of thousands more. We have become nodes, synapses assembled into the new organs of an emerging god. As an alien mind awakens the senescent world is absorbed and… I… am… © JM Tiffany
Ø₱Ɇ₦ł₦₲ ₮ⱧɆ ɆɎɆ
Her robe falls away in an opalescent swell, collapsing at her feet like a serpent’s skin.
Laced through with eldritch circuitry, her lithe body, niveous and bare, pulses rhythmically with light.
Polychromatic bioluminescence coruscates hypnotically beneath the milky translucence of ivorine flesh, lambent sub-dermal lattices of blushing radiance tracing the interior contours of her being.
Her lucid roseate eyes and glossy pink lips glitter jewel-like, the high cheeks of her delicate visage blush, a pale flower blooming in the brood chamber of the crystalline naos.
She begins to dance, at once lovely and frightening. Graceful and fluid, yet sharp and precise, the air about her whispers secrets with each practiced motion, her slender limbs sighing like swords to her silent song. As exquisite hips sway, shapely legs leap and glide, nimble feet caressing the kaleidoscopic mirror of the quartzite floor. Spine arcing, wild cascades of gossamer hair fall in glowing fiber-optic waves over pallid breasts as she draws unseen signs in the gestural language of a lost world. Spectral and diaphanous, her delicate fingers trace luminous shapes, neon-pink glyphs of molten intent whose fluid forms weave a delicate web of abstract patterns. The cosmos shudders in harmonic resonance, rhythmically entrained with the deep magic of her dance. As worlds align, the veil parts and The Eye is opened. Through it she sees the true shape of all things and goes mad with ecstasy. © JM Tiffany
Gravity
Sick with sadness and wretched with longing, I found you in a night of smoke and poison.
Crooked reptiles leered through alcoholic distortions and I burned myself to check the nightmare for substance.
Twin blue flames cut the haze.
Your gravity drew me closer and, like a star of grace, or a sign of calamity, you cut through the clouds and crashed straight into my heart.
© JM Tiffany
Desert Rose
You said that you loved me but you denied me my face. You said that you loved me but you denied me my body. You said that you loved me but you denied me my clothes. You said that you loved me but you denied me my voice.
You said that you gave me the world but it wasn’t yours to offer. nor was it mine to receive.
You said that you would give me your heart but all you handed me was an empty vessel.
I longed to drink of you, but my throat grew dry and still I thirst.
I put my parched lips on yours and a desert spread between us.
I watched the sun go down in your eyes and bloomed alone in the dark as I waited for the world to end.
© JM Tiffany 2023
Red Bones
In my vision I flew as I fell and rode a great gray wolf through a vortex of smoldering antlers. My beast steered my thoughts until, like water in milk, we merged and became a singular ghost rushing like wind through the dreaming wilds. I was drawn to a sullen sound and at once saw a young boy’s skull hanging from ghastly strings. There was a mournful chanting nearby, a soft feminine voice that sang wordlessly in the night. I found its source: a young girl who was rinsing her ruddy hands in a starlit pool. She was bare, save for a wooden mask, its brow carved with a pale moon. Nearby, amid the vines and briarwood, a black bear lurked, but the girl showed no signs of concern. I saw then eight arrows of yew, each with a glinting green obsidian point, arranged like the spokes of a wheel on the ground. I looked again at the boy’s skull and saw that it hung amidst his red, excarnated bones. A gentle breeze rocked his remains in the gnarled tree, each bloody bit bound there by his own sinews to its misshapen branches. It seemed to me that he sprouted like macabre fruits from the sleeping, twisted limbs. His luminous flesh caught the light of the full moon and glowed dully in the darkness as the masked girl began toiling to stretch it tightly over a simple wooden rack. With her hands, she caressed his lovely ruin, and smeared the taught flesh with the boy’s own brains. This she did to tan and preserve his hide, but also to work his memories into the skin. “I will wear you in the Spring,” she lamented, “and you will rise again as the Sun.” I think that she wept beneath her mask, though its rough wooden visage was unchanging and stern. When she resumed her singing, I heard the rough sound of ursine breath behind me. As snow began to fall, I opened my eyes. © JM Tiffany 1.2.2024
Nothing Here Is Dead
It was an early morning in late September and the monuments were waiting for the first blush of dawn.
I intended to visit a friend there but had brought my camera to shoot the rising sun.
I drove up a thin black ribbon past ancient stones and gnarled giants to greet the amber glow from the crest of a mighty hill.
The trees there were all fat and happy, their crooked roots sunk hungrily into the silent, sleepy tombs.
I hadn’t been well (and neither had the world) but I felt a certain vigor returning and the morning air resurrected me.
Unfortunately, I had been away too long and I could no longer locate his headstone.
It was just a small plaque anyway. So insignificant and unobtrusive. So unlike him when alive.
I laughed at the comparison.
The last time I visited I had brought his ghost a beer and some cigarettes.
A lot had changed since then and I was no longer a person he would recognize.
Of course, he would always be beautiful. And 27.
Had it really been so long?
Though the dead may rest there, there was so much life in that place. It was a green explosion, even with the new yellows of Fall’s intimation burning at the edges.
I passed a great old oak sporting an early burst of mistletoe.
It made me think of the god Balder and how the pretty, yet parasitic plant, had been used by Loki to kill the god of joy, a being loved by all. Oh how the nine worlds had wept when he passed away!
I told myself stories then about my fallen friend as the lens poured light from an ancient star into my insignificant little head.
Then I remembered that all of this is made of an endless fire.
Ashes are memories, I thought, but that flame lives on.
I was painting with light that morning while the light was painting me.
Nothing here is dead, I thought.
I packed my gear and drove home.
I smiled, because my friend rode with me, nestled warmly in my heart and sprouting from my head like little white berries in a golden hour.
©️ JM Tiffany 3/31/2024
In Silent Depths
The way was steep, descending in tight shafts through sedimentary layers into the pulse-haunted quietude of dark spaces below. I hammered my anchors and tested the protection before rappelling deeper. As the rope spiraled away like a thin snake into the aphotic throat of silence, I lowered myself down. My lantern glowed amber, creating a thin blister of light around me that swayed with each movement. Precariously, I dropped further into the depths. I was squeezed through a maze of tunnels, down broad fissures, and out of claustrophobic cracks into wet chambers. Limestone, gypsum, and dolomite took strange liquous forms, carved as they were by the slow flow of water over time. Occasionally, when I raised my lantern, strange fossils and ancient relics would cast worrisome shadows amid the looming stalactites and stalagmites. As my footfalls echoed into the shadowed stillness the warm glow of my little lantern was my dearest companion. In a place that dark and isolated, time passes differently. Without the Sun and Moon to pull one through their days, time vanishes into a permanent Night in which the only stars are phosphene flashes in the optic nerve, the false lights of the so-called “Prisoner’s Cinema”. But I was no captive here. I had come in search of something. Something lost. Something precious. After several cycles of resting and moving (what day was it?) I reached at last a vast chamber hollowed out long ago by heat and pressure into a natural cathedral. My lantern sent waves of light shimmering through a sea of dancing refraction. I shivered in the vaulted womb and listened to the sound of my breath. Eventually, I found it: a low mound of dirt on a bald island in the center of the prismatic chamber.
Though tired and sore, my heart fluttered in anticipation. I set down my pack, adjusted my lantern, and set to work with my shovel. How long I labored there in that crystalline abyss I cannot say. My face dripped sweat and strained muscles weakened as exhaustion set in. On I went, giving myself fully to the task, until at last I uncovered a feminine form beneath the moist soil of that secret place. I was struck with a sudden fear, and for a moment, I was frozen. I could hear the subtle sound of slow moving-water as I set to using my hands to clear away the dirt. It was then that I saw her face. How long had she lain there? Gingerly, I wiped the mud from her eyes, my hands gently clearing the muck from her cheeks and brow. When she opened her eyes I saw myself in them, and taking her into my arms, we wept. When at last she would emerge into sunlight, it would be without me. My body slid neatly into the impression. As I lay motionless in the mucky indentation, I closed my eyes. “I love you,” I said. “I know,” she spoke softly. I smiled as I felt each shovelful of earth add its weight upon my body. It was strangely comforting. Finally, I could rest. I closed my eyes and dreamt of her. © JM Tiffany 2024
Our Days In A Box
You gave to me all of your time and they placed it neatly in this ornate box. Somewhere within it is a giggling moment where I lay smiling beneath you. I remember your hair falling all around me, and I can still feel your soft, pretty hands laced onto mine. We were always stitched to each other’s side and never more than the breadth of a smile away. I remember us then, walking in the secret night, clothing suddenly lost and hearts found, nubile angels kissing sweetly in the dark flowing waves. Our eyes were those of children then, vacant jewels hungry for experience. We fed ours on sunsets and each other’s faces until they grew fuller, deeper, and a bit less naive. Long ago, you reached into an open wound and emptied it of ugliness. You always filled me with so many bright things. But now, I am older and all has grown quiet. I can no longer hear the world above the music of your name. The wind, the waves, the gulls, the ghosts - no one speaks to me anymore. Your hand no longer links to mine and the chain of time is broken. I open your box, a gift that now takes. Takes all of my strength. Takes the color from my skin, until I am bone white and paper thin. As the water drinks you down I do not say goodbye. I do not say anything. I cannot speak but would rather sink with your ashes. As the water turns to ink, you are written on my body and I smile through tears at a poem read only by the horizon at dusk. It is a song of parting and of our days in a box.
© JM TIffany 2024
Fly Back Home
Why have you gone and left me?
You up and flew out of my life, and it hurts me in a way I never thought was possible, worse than a broken T11 or 12, you have carved me out hollow like a pumpkin, decorating me with not a joyfully frightening smile, but a horrific mournful frown.
It is forever cut into an empty husk that holds what remains of me, the resting place of a decaying heart, one that no longer blooms, instead it weeps and bellows, begging you to come back.
No longer am I a baby bird of your nest, for I was tossed back into my original flock, while venomous-shit-soaked pests rampaged your beautiful burrow, through what used to be my home, claiming it as their reward for "taking care of you", a tax for the hours you "robbed" of them.
I cry and shout as I am reminded I can never fly back to it, screaming and kicking as it hits me every night that I can never fly up to you, for you have flown far away from my heart broken hands, they grasp at your warm discarded feathers wishing the rest of you was there, to hold onto me the way you used to, to wrap me up in the warmest love I'll ever know.
My eyes have never burned with such an intensity, the windows to my soul have flooded since you left, every now and then I open them to let water out, each time it closes back up my memories of you leak through, and once again the thin casing that holds me fills up to the brim; a forever storm of grieving.
In a final dream you sat and told me your goodbyes, promising that we were forever connected, assuring me we'd see each other again, I ignored it all, pleading that you'd stay, but you took off anyway.
How could you?
How could you leave me?
I watched through blurry vision, as the red bird I loved so deeply departed from me to join her beloved, clutching all you left behind, sinking down to the floor, allowing every piece of me to shatter from the inside.
A flock of birds who love and care for me surround me, but they are not you.
A promise of another meeting tries to reassure me, but it never does.
That fact that you loved me and I know you still do, that, that is something that breaks me.
So many things about your departure hurt me, but what stabs at me the most...
Every...
Single...
Time...
Is that fact that I can no longer be physically engulfed in your lovely pleasant embrace.
For it is the straw that snaps my back, internally twisting me up in tortuous ways.
Why did you leave me?
- Autumn(Me)
An Unspoken Secret Yearning To Escape
There are words resting in my throat, choking me, wanting to be let out.
I'm scared of the aftermath that will come if I raise the volume of my thoughts; Purposefully unplugging my earbuds to let you all hear for yourselves.
What if you leave me?
What if you hear my disgusting thoughts and think me an ass?
You take each shakey pitch with venom as you clog up your eardrums; Perfectly placed cotton swabs.
If I don't speak up, I fear the worst, I teeter on the seesaw of internal death, the death of us.
But what if I said it all and things changed, it brings us closer, maybe carving open my mind wouldn't be so bad?
But I'm petrified that you're going to yell and take everything side ways, that you will think it all to be blame and slander; "A huge slap in the face to everything you've ever done for me, for us."
I hate bottling everything up in fear, I too am a hoarder, one of a different nature.
I just truly don't know how to fix us, I know there's a way, I just don't know which wire is the right one; Which one will cause us not to blow up and die?
I'm a coward who doesn't want to be the one to do it, to cut the wire that could help us heal, together.
My chest caves in at the thought of being abandoned for unshedding my tears; Opening up years of bottled anguish.
I'm just so tired, it hurts to see everyone suffering around me on mute, and I honestly don't like the thoughts that have been dashing around my head, they hold a knife up to my existence and whisper awful things; A twisted way of coping and solving everything.
What do I do, what do I say?
How do I keep us all together without you walking off into your mountainous forest of solitude?
Silently I weep at the thought of our band finally breaking up, each member angrily heading off in a different direction, walking home the true family way; Sitting alone in a quiet garage of abandoned-dusty-unique instruments.
Through tears I let the gentle melodies of our songs wash over me, it's torture to listen to my favorite hits alone, each memory bouncing off the lonely walls of my heart.
We don't need to crack and float away, there is no need to become Pangaea; Wait, just wait, I swear there's glue in this drawer or maybe...it's this one?
Will I raise the volume to my wellkept thoughts?
Clear my throat, raise my head up high, fixing my posture(for once), looking you each in your intimidating marbles, 3 pairs of brown and the lil odd man with the beautiful green orbs dancing in a mixture of many lovely shades, and release a tiny roar for your huge four-finger-lengthed foreheads to acknowledge?
No.
No, I will not be doing any of that, at least not with my voice, for my skills in writing far exceed the ones in speaking; Written material from the fierce-short-inner Centaur smoothly typed out as her tongue undoes a multitude of knots.
I spill to you this, my droplets of truth; A taste of the secret feelings I have imprisoned inside the dark shelves holding a fine collection of tightly sealed bottles within my heaving lungs.
Told to you through the freeing art of poetry; The Centaur is shy, having little experience in the domain of sharing and talking about the arrows currently kissing her skin, they've rested there for years, the blood has dried and dipped into her unwashed pores.
I am lost, searching for the safest way to pick out the splinters we have rooted deep within our skin; She doesn't know what to do, panicking under this overwhelming presence of frosty distance, stressful tears brimming the corners of her eyes.
How do I fix this?
Will sharing any of this help?
There are words scratching on the gummy insides of my throbbing neck, screeching to be freed, wanting to mix and mingle with the sounds of life, it kicks and strangles me, turning me green and blue, for I wish to vomit them loose on the carpet of our home, but I'm scared of the mess it shall truly make if I were to yack it all up for once.
- Autumn(Me)
Progress
As I scroll through my gallery, it finally shifts into focus just how far I've come with the love for my physical features; Admiration for one's own exterior.
When I was younger I hated the way I appeared in the mirror, my eyes and nose scrunched up at the hideous creature that frowned back at me, she made me want to vomit all over the sink, whenever we lock eyes now, I want her by my side, for she is stunning, I am mesmerized by myself; Growth.
Everything about me was a flaw, a mistake I did my best to cover up and hide, it felt safe and comfortable to be wrapped up in layers; Years of oversized-sweat-soaked hoodies.
I used to burn up underneath the thick fabric, afraid everyone would see the hairy-manly-wolf arms protecting my skin, anytime I rolled up my sleeves to cool off my unshaven limbs, someone would stare or state the obvious to me; Fear over natural human features.
With jealous rage, I watched as every other person paraded about in beautiful clothes, materials that wonderfully showed off the eye catching features I neither had or felt I carried, a watery fire bursting when hearing them get called pretty or asked out; Wanting to wear their irresistible shoes over my own, to feel attractive by the public.
Tears of aggravation pouring down, as everyone I used to want made me feel ugly for looking the way I do, I felt foolish in my large cloak of safety for even thinking they would want this, an oily beast who offered nothing for them to gawk at; A young fool liking the wrong people.
As I sit and analyze my journey out of the security cocoon that I spun myself into, I am truly proud of the butterfly that emerged from what she thought was her home, she is so lucky those pest she used to desire did not see her true worth tucked away behind what they viewed as merily muck.
Although she slouches, she stands as tall as her little legs allow, finally smiling in pictures, enjoying the photoshoots she spends hours taking, giggling and blushing over herself for once, gawking over the outfits she never would have worn trapped in her overheated blankets of protection; Crushing on me.
I have tossed out the piles of meekness that clogged up my self image, making room for vanity to decorate the space, she carries an ego with appreciation for every part of me, even though my huge-ass-four-finger-length forehead has grown a bit, it feels rather nice to have pride to be me, which is quite new; Cheering for team us, Me-Myself-& the one and only...I.
Thank you to the ones who saw the enchanting jester nervously hiding behind the curtains, afraid to go out on stage and be poorly judged by the audience surrounding her; Gifting her with inspiration.
She is more than grateful that her favorite supporters encouraged her to step out of her opaque shell, freeing herself of the gown of shame that she used to cling on for shelter, exposing a gorgeous goddess who looks enchanting yet quite silly, for she proudly gazes upon the crowd dawning her favorite facial expression; A dumbass whose face goofily contorts, her thin eyebrows smashing together, as she either purses her lips out or sucks them in pridefully with confidence over her unique exterior.
"I love you, you're total babe inside and out, always coming up with the oddest jokes that make me crack a smile even if it does not land with your crowd a hundred percent of the time, you're my favorite comedian and artist." - Me to Me.
- Autumn(Me)
Welcoming In The "Best" Company
She craves this, shamefully begs for it, clattering down onto her creaky knees, a feeling of being forgotten, miserable, and empty; Drinking it down like water, gasping in distaste for the woman in the mirror.
What the fuck is wrong with her?
Chaotically distraught, disoriented by this disturbing hunger; She enjoys this?
Living in the shadows, misplaced, yet fond fingers brushing upon her bitter skin; Loving bright hands in every direction but never spotlighting on her.
Slithering in the grainy darkness, tear burnt eyes watch in anticipation, eager to see what will happen, where this chapter shall drop her and the other characters; Fucked up indulgence.
She's twisted, a fucking hypocrite, babbling through snotty snobs and sniffles, how she "hates this feeling," yet she's got a craving for all this drama; Sickly appetite of a crybaby coward, licking at her dry lips.
Why would she relish any of this, desiring for it all to go wrong?
She's afraid of Happiness, of falling in love with her, only for her to be ripped away from moist-clammy-blistered digits; A loss she's grown accustomed to.
It's easier, she likes the warm-cold embrace of Despair, as he lights up a cigarette, taking what he wants, discarding her naked shell onto the street, leaving her to crumble down; Freezing alone with no clothes to cover her shame.
Slowly regluing herself, rising onto scrapped up bones, beginning to trek up the dusty road to where she should be (with her true lover, Happiness), only for him to come back, caressing her brain, internally tearing her up (again and again).
How orgasmic, the way her tears keep coming every single time; One night stand after one night stand, her only relationship and release.
The gross whore is sorry; Not an apology, simply an excuse of being.
- Autumn(Me)
A Game Of Eye Contact
Nervously, her eyes avert from looking your way, only gifted a sliver of a glimpse as you turn away from her; Liking what I don't see.
She is terrified of starting the game, locking eyes with a beautiful stranger, what happens when you win?
Who is the prize?
A rush of red hot panic blares through her eagerly frantic system as she tries to calculate every possible repercussion; Overthinking, her best attribute.
Her gears creak and screech, overrun and burnt, as her imagination swims in a sweaty pool of fictional scenarios; Chaotically disorganized, the awkward-shy-ambiverted Daydreamer drifts.
Confused by the back and forth notes passed between her plump form and jittery spirit, she displays the oddest cues and signs, the air between the two players becoming unreadable; Mixed Messages.
Are they even playing?
Is she in or out?
(Internal Questions and Fears).
Her mind is unable to apply it's make-up, where is it to even begin, what will it wear?
As tempted as she may be by the gentle Pink Boy of Flowers, Hesitancy is quick to stop the weird Turquoise Beast from running along to play in the field of soft spoken lilies; Considering the odds from every single angle, a few more times.
The hopeless romantic fidgets above the buttons, timid-antsy-inexperienced fingers dance along the colorful knobs, her quarter moist and warm as it rests in her anxious little palms, brown marbles rake over the flashing arcade machine screen; "Push start to begin."
- Autumn(Me)
Fake Laughter
Words are like punches, fists of heavy stone plummeting down deep onto my heart; Delicious pinkish-red, blue veined pancake.
She has the tendency to let them knock her down hard, bawling up in an aura of despair; Sensitive tears spilled upon her pale-brown cheeks throughout her whole existence.
Unable to control the way it torments her inner sticky cavities, she cries in pain and guilt.
A burning dark pit forms in the center of her chest, making her want to vanish, never to have existed, undo any wrong she has caused, shrivel up from life and the confusing feelings that leave her soul spinning as it twists and snaps; Dwelling on every little thing.
Her tiny brain is an ugly-nasty-bitter-gray-mattered-self-conscious-conniving bitch, who holds onto every sentence that has ever forced it's way through her emotional chambers; Spiteful organ of control.
Betraying eyes reveal the way you've carved in with venomous vocable, as she beats you until you're physically hurt, an array of purple-red-black-and-blue, the only pain that she knows how to administer to recover from her mental bruising; Emotional loss.
Crumbling down, making a huge mess on the counter, a chipped baby, cracked up cookie sinking down low in the tall milk glass of criticism, pathetically crying, disintegratingly soaked; Did the mouse ask for a side of stricture as well?
She apologizes for her obstreperous heaving, as she ignores the pit that tugs on the string of her gushing-gooey-leaky guts; The thin tethering strand that yanks up insides from an achy-retched-endearing place called "Love."
- Autumn(Me)
No, God No
Perfectly written words to represent how she feels gone, erased, typed out raw thoughts Thanos snapped away in a blink, as if they were never real.
A new kind of pain washes over her, frustrated thumbs poking down something different because of one little slip of a button; Forever dead and gone are the thoughts she originally desired to share.
Once wearing the mask of a depressed jester, now adorning the face of a pissed off poet, upset over the unsaved thoughts plucked from a heartfelt brain of misery, planting seeds of unsavory anger into the gardens of the Internet instead; Tears of aggravation.
She's a goddamn fool for wanting to let her emotions naturally guide the flow of her work, a fucking moron whose illustrations and reflections have been refreshed off her screen, vanishing into the void of forgotten blurs.
"I can't believe you've done this."
Truly, she can not.
Sighing in disbelief over a fear, something she thought was silly to be afraid of happening, stupidly lucky once, her ass was saved one time and she mistakingly took it for granted instead of as a warning of what would come to never be if she was not careful; A lesson through accidents.
Forever no more, her unfinished poem of truthful thoughts that were stripped away of the meat that gave it life, shall now lay rest in the graveyard of Drafts, never to be touched again; Endlessly mourned bones of what could have been.
Another tack to add onto her list of regrets, never forgetting to kick herself down over this large L she never meant to bite into; Another thought to keep her awake at night.
She loved you which is why she is so upset over your disappearence, you were beautiful and meant the world to her, in her teary eyes you had a bright future ahead of you; Suddenly, no one.
I will never be able to re-create nor replicate the masterpiece that was you, my love.
- Autumn(Me)
New Bird, Same Song
Good morning, oblivious bright bird, blissfully blind to my feelings, to my silence.
You flew right into my hands, singing an annoyingly cute tune, convincing me that I was beautiful, tweeting on and on how you want to fly around, wing to wing with me; A tired old tune of lies and disinterest manipulating a gullible heart.
A fool who never learns, always she repeats this lesson, the way she smiles as her young snotty heart bleeds, so disgustingly enjoyable; A masochist down on her creaky knees kissing fists of make-believe roses.
These thorns disguised as honey soaked green tea leaves, soaking beneath rotten pores, so sweetly bitter this game, this decaying plant upon the garden of possibilities; Endless crushes.
She mourns the death of this little sprout, for this one had the best smile, but beneath its young roots were nothing but weeds, poisoning her fertile soil of love, making her gag in guilt and shame; Uprooting a ghostly invasive green.
Goodbye, silly boy.
- Autumn(Me)
Confidential Favoritism
I wish I didn’t have a heart, that this loud organ would stop swelling up with an overwhelming care and deep interest for her world and the people who surround it; Craving hollow blissful silence.
How do you do it, walk around so casually nonchalant, dust puffing out from your skin as mine secretes with oozing-nervous-eager sweat, my heart smashing up against my meaty ribcage as you ignore me; Non-mutual gaze.
Locking myself in tightly to these black fuzzy cuffs, grinning as they strangle the veins of my pride, impatiently awaiting the attention of a big loser, savoring each fiery shot you sharply spit back, loving the way it spills from your darkly distant digits; New twisted leash.
It’s cold and quiet, this lobby you leave me to sit in for hours, twiddling thumbs as I look for my favorite pair of eyes, jealously tired when I read they’ve wandered off to other harlots tied around your pretty pink leashes, I fiddle with the collar questioning it all, and yet the moment you walk in you set pants passionately ablaze, happily wagging my tail as you give me my 30 minutes of fun; Your secret wish, maybe even mine.
Of all the whores in my collection on the internet, you set my skin burning in the brightest of rosey leaky flames, my cheeks flushing the shiest of pinks as I bite down onto my dry lips, chewing on the peels of red bloody flesh, fighting back a big dorky smile, because you’re secretly my favorite hoe, the best tool in my fluorescent shed; A cheesy disgusting truth from the long dirty sleeve of my artery clogged heart.
So different from every single one, the way you speak to me only further intriguing my annoying interest in you, for you are not a sweet little gummy bear, fully willing to gift me picnic baskets upon picnic baskets of sugary compliments, no, you are a deliciously-salivating-sour gummy worm, wiggling through with banter filled soil as you wriggle your way up my thoughts; Picking rude Sour Patch Kids over kind Skittles.
As my tongue waters and pinches, my heart shaped boat sinks down knowing that you do not feel these extremely insane overbearing rotten feelings, for I am delusional as I suck and lick away all the addictive candies you tease me with, stubbornly returning for more neglectful tricks and treats from your beautiful brown orbs; Stupidly entranced by the grumpiest of hoes.
Was this fun and creative enough for you, captivatingly entertaining, border line insane, my liege?
- Autumn(Me)