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you asked me where i was goingand i said
i'm sorry, but i have a love-hate relationship with bones.
right now i love them.
...and i hate it.
you gotta get outi slept in the woods last night
with no coat and missing shoes;
i made my bed in the snow,
buried my face against the ice,
and felt nothing.
skin sinking to pale blues with every hour,
(a faded variety against the colourless drapery called my complexion).
my veins crackled and snapped, icicles forming inside.
numb to the bone and core as i was the day you left.
staring into a dead sky, past fusain tree limbs,
the sound of something corporate seemed to take to the passing wind.
its pounding piano and cutting words
should have stung like the frostbite,
but instead swept me unconscious.
but i am Kristie not Konstantine,
and you spell konfusion with a J
..and? i don't like it.
asleep on the forest floor,
lifeless as you'd left me,
still as the day i watched you go.
though we'd stood motionless in the kitchen
and went nowhere at all;
you had left.
the you inside you had;
you let it go, fled, gave it up.
gave me up.
you canceled all our reservations
but forgot to tell m
the last leaf to fall.// Sometimes I Feel the Description of the Poem Should Come First //
....so it's going to.
and the poem? it's going to be the comments instead.
Yes, I'm going there.
I haven't touched it in three years, but I've suffered it every day since.
Krystle? You may not want to read this.
This is a poem I wrote, one of my first.
Three years ago, I was admitted to a trauma disorders hospital for those with severe childhood trauma, sexual abuse, PTSD, and other dissociative disorders.
I'd never been in treatment for this.
I was terrified to walk onto a unit where I'd have to face my past trauma whether I was ready or not.
But, at the same time I saw this as 'my solid oak tree' where all its leaves were in the place of understanding. We all knew the same kinds of suffering. We all were no strangers to flashbacks, night terrors, memories, hypervigilence, fear.
Sadly, none of us were strangers to self-harm or suicidal ideation eith--
The TrundlerThe waste land behind the fire station is always silent. No birds sing there, and even the wild rabbits and feral cats avoid it. Weedy wildflowers nod their seasonal heads in the breeze. Lying fallow in the midst of housing developments, shopping malls, the new movie theater — the vacant lot stands out like a knife wound on a woman’s placid face, shocking, brazen, ugly.
It is always empty. Except for one thing: a ragged heap of old trash, all nasty black tar paper and vicious snarls of rusted wire, car parts and broken glass and other junkyard jetsam. The embodiment of injury waiting to happen, an invitation to a tetanus shot... the city never hauled it away. No one ever wants anywhere near it; it radiates an eerie sense of calculating watchfulness.
And at night, it wanders.
When darkness falls, and the last cars heading into the hives of tract housing stop illuminating the asphalt with moving-picture shadows, it… unfolds. Bitter, broken tangles, grotesquely mov
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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