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Key by MrMattRain  not an actual poemHow long can I sit politely on their couch?
He gets me a drink. I get myself
slowly ruined by the shifting of her thighs
and the way she gently touches
what is hers - 
coffee table, fridge door,
her phone,
her walls,
his arm.
Broad-mouthed, slim-throated queen,
I miss the days
when neither of us
owned a thing
at all. 
 Everyone loves Dolls by pLayBbiUm 
architecturethere are poor draftsmen who distill sound
in forty-two proof and forty-nine hundred decibels
that will always sound like wingbeats – maybe heartbeats too
whirring around the scaffolding at three hundred feet
where the men hurl their lunchmeat over the steel beams
far beneath where the airplane will land one day
and they all chant together "THESE ARE THE DAYS
OH YES – THESE ARE THE DAYS" in a trembling baritone
fit through the skeleton of the city that shudders
like a violin shudders – all night long
if it has to – like one of the lonely women
shuddering in the pale light of her living room
cuddled up with her lung disease and the dog
that wanted to be in the circus but settled
for the couch like she settled into her armchair
one day and tried not to get up ever again
even when the ice cream man wanted to love her
and the mail man wanted to buy her a drink
or two when all she wanted was a forty-five
playing in the background like baptism water
or strawberry ice crea
  lightrub your eyes,
find morning
in your hands
in the sugar
in your coffee, sprinkled,
missing
ego torn and locked in your hair
do not feed it,
it is already
obese, on the verge of dying
sleeping. I never closed my eyes,
wrapped in vertigo,
I fell towards you
not for.
our foreheads touched,
our minds opened and then it was just.
bright, orange,
sunrise
 The Double by HilaryJR

--- 0221 by IrinaJoanne  The Southern Land Not Yet KnownDecember can break you
when you live in this  
neck of the woods.
The sun is a tyrant, pressing his
blistering fingers on the mother-of-pearl
and the milk of my thighs, probing at the silk
behind my knees.
Filling up my eyes.
And every summer I feel a little more
like roadkill, hot and bloody
and splayed. The aching pulse
is too much to bear,
the spilling, the rotting,
the rigor mortis knotting up my spine.
-
I can worship this.
I can make this mine.
Faith comes from the scream first,
and it comes from the stillness second.
I see the lapis lazuli of the harbour’s curve,
cold and bright-filled jewel,
and I think I could understand this.
The summer storms, their dark and frantic rise,
the sharply swollen smell in the wetness of the dirt,
the deepest richness of the crumbled earth –
something primal snapping in the sky,
like puking or coming or finally,
finally,
starting to cry. I can understand this.
Salt on my teeth. Salt in my blood
and my sister’s hair. The snak
 Purple sky by FinlandNature
wax by cloudsfall Untitled by mldzz  is my verse alive in amherst?solitude bred ingenuity while safeguarding innocence

self-portrait by LadyMartist Soul-mates by little-naoko  Bird's eyeAn orange cat
elegant and frank
with a slim Egyptian face
and pose
dabs at a wounded bird
in the grass.
I bend low
and wave him off
with a gentle shove
and he relents,
showing me the crook
of his tail,
the Nile
in his walk.
The bird has
tiny beads of blood
between its wings
and under its beak
but the damage appears
to be minor.
Its eyes are wide and gleaming,
wild and deep and black.
They pitch something
inside me
off balance when I
look at them.  
Their blankness
is alive and unknowable,
as if the original darkness
of things lay in there,
the ancient darkness
for which the first light
was phenomenon.
I pick up the bird
and carry it off.
The cat licks
its paw
as if nothing
had happened.

Empty by CezarJ Forgotten Memories by CezarJ Joan of Arc.. by CezarJ 
Leap of Faith by Suvetar  boys dont cryand the way
that your hand
holds onto mine
feels like the noose around my neck,
i'm trying to hang myself
off your
marionettes.
no - 
i'm not dead yet.
but your thoughts
are bullets
and your words are guns
and when they shoot me in the head
you cure it with a band aid
because you don't have
a medical degree yet.
your kisses have left me
black and blue
while i still use
the mug you gave me
as an ash tray.
and i'm holding on
to the lip stick stains
on the dresser
wearing them around my neck
to hide how you took
my breath away.
  the observant curator will notice...the observant curator will notice...
fertilizer falls
softly, mocking the rain, and
horses shuffle, shy
of what could kill
or sustain them
fertilizer rests
slowly dissolving, diffusing
into the earth
reminiscent
of how people curate
their lawns instead
of their families
 
Cold days II by MKAphotography  #3 (my love was born still)i remember the colour of your hair the day that you were born
and the way that your eyes gripped like vices,
refusing to see anything more than your own inner sanctum;
i can still hear the first, curdled cries you let loose into the world.
i remember holding the talisman of your birth against myself
and hearing your gurgling as we drove,
desperate to find relief at the end of yet another road.
i remember the curve of your mouth as you ate softened apples,
the way you struggled to fit your fist between your gums
and the saliva that coated your fingers when you finally gave up.
but mostly i remember the ways i tried to love you,
and the ways in which i managed to fail.
  the writing on the walls.tonight would be
a damn good night
to fall in love
with you.
i'll smoke
one of your cigarettes
because maybe
it will taste like you.
let's have a shot
of cheap vodka
and chase it
with shooting stars.
if you fall asleep in my bed,
i'll wake you early enough
to see the magic of golden sun
on my bookshelf in the morning.

Heidelberg, 2011Heidelberg, your streets run
with the blood of philosophers -
roses and rubies cascade
where they once meditate upon
the river Neckar, the pink stones
of fallen castles to be spat upon
by the people. Heidelberg,
your history outweighs the secrets,
it catacombs through snow
like coffee grains wedged
between wrinkled stones.
The Altstadt is your legacy,
an anachronism; the Hauptstrasse
rambles through like a goatherd
beating a path for sheep; The Universitat
boasts arches and sandstones enduring
on history's pedestal - now lost
in the squall of market stalls peddling bratwurst
in the rain.
Heidelberg, from the Philosophenweg
I can see autumn's shadow collide
past and present, when summer leaves
brown in fainter sunshine, curl and whisk away
to dust the crimson rooftops, the pebbled paths
that once inspired scholarly thoughts.
Under my feet they promise of snow
sleeting from the peaks
of gingerbread mountains, white
and sugary, clumped
and rolled by human hands. I stumble,
and the earth c
  ghost watersher tongue spins tales of poison,
lacing sailors with her forked lies
the ocean rises and falls
with quick, bated breaths from her chest
as the sails of her haunted, bowing ship
billow across waters of lost souls.
she pirates the never-ending seas,
and whispers siren songs
directed at youthful, wide-eyed sailors
lingering along the salted shore.
underneath the carcass of her ship
lies the eternal cemetery of her prey.
their cries echo in the icicle wind
while she laughs at their misery.
bruises and tattoos line her jaw
with one lone scar scraped across her right eye
a haunting symbol that she is
that even the huntress of the seven seas
can be vulnerable at times.
she’s forbidden from dry land,
a wretched curse she cannot escape.
she tricks souls aboard her boat
to gather tales from a land she mourns.
her eyes are glassy and her touch is cold.
the gag is still folded across her mouth,
and the bloodstains decorate her throat,
beside the nightstand sits a suicide note
it reads:
my l
 Drawing my Dreamer by kristina323  

004.a flannel shirt
a cigarette
those downcast eyes
your damn regrets;
your skinny frame
the moleskin book
i really miss
your classic look.
  Early WinterThere's just one Earth, but I can't breathe with the others.
I'm not meant for them—
whether ordained by god
or tossed forward, into each other, by the raging indifference of nature.
Until they stop talking about weather
and the old men— what they wouldn't give for this misery,
wasted on the miserable—
I had said I will love you,
even if you don't love me.
 Glow by ImagineAppleScruffs 
tuesday nightsthe full moon aches.
tuesday nights are always full of statues.
i wonder what it is to be dead. do you remember
the mother? the comedown from the other, write
as an animal, as a breathing piece of fabric--
the fabric felt in the lines.
you are the main event. hold still.
disengage. you are no mercury flower.
imagine imagine imagine. the airplane
coating of skin to bone. all flesh is concentrated
on your ankles.
so much has happened and will happen
before we can respond to this as an end. epicenter.
the spider-work of lines.
the gas station attendant wondering
if he did the right thing.
the sky holding its breath, beware, beware.
there are no other answers.
there is never anything but light,
and light on light never told us anything about what
we needed to know or be or wear or be wary of.
catch the clouds in your hands.
call me miracle, though i am not
a thing of wonder, i am still
miraculous.
i am still a being made of sticks.
watch me fall apart.
exhaustion makes the most beautiful s
 dramatic by HappyLittleMe   throbbin' the hoodthe garden, to be clear, means drone-stained and yonder stands,
and the guerrilla medium with its impression of white, dying horses.
And this, of course, is the body,
the exile,
the tattered moon hung between rocks to protect the forest fire from the wind.
Now comes the part of the poem where I say something specific about myself
so I don't look completely full of shit.
So here it is: The garden is a crowd
in my dream, and my dream, the fragile panic,
and an excess of power-lines and their buzzing,
and a thesis on the institution of marriage-
How you can fuck senators and still be in love with a deserted house,
And the garden is duality,
how one person can exist in two places at the same time,
or be two people at the same place,
and its me the way the santa ana river dries to a valley of stones
and come find me and I miss you and how we're all different people and sometimes we're rooms and sometimes we're oceans and sometimes we're gardens.
 
snippetsi. your hands are maps i wanna memorize inside and out
so i'll always know the way home.
ii. you're dead to me but i keep you alive
on paper and black text.
iii. i will weave stories out of the lines on your skin.
iv. joke's on you: i made my heart out of nothing but brittle plastic,
good luck finding a home in there.
v. empty like a hollowed out pumpkin.
except not as scary,
just more pathetic.
vi. i have secrets that no one knows that i'm scared i will end up
taking to the grave.
i don't know if my soul can handle all that baggage.
vii. i want to hold fire in the palm of my hand
 Sebastian 01 by EirikHenden6 23 by 1LovelyArt 


Basically I went through the first twenty-something pages of my favorites and sought out things I feel deserve more recognition.

Have fun. :D 
  • Mood: Peaceful
This song... this video... gets to me in ways I can't explain.


  • Mood: Peaceful
It was nearing 8:00 PM. Eli was back in his and Larry’s room. Larry was already asleep and Eli lay on his back in bed, holding his arms up in front of his face, inspecting the stitched up holes in his wrists which he could see now that the gauze had been removed. A service provider had taken scissors to it earlier in the day. He would have permanent scars—that is, if the wounds even healed. If he lived long enough for them to heal. He ran his fingers over his forehead, feeling the gashes that, despite time and a seemingly endless supply of antiseptic, were still etched into his skin, fresh as ever.

As if overpowered by a sudden force, he felt an intense urge to write. He bolted off his bed and tiptoed over to the writing desk in the corner of the room. He sat down, opened the composition notebook that sat, untouched, on its surface, took up the felt pen that was available (for fear that an actual pen or pencil could be used as a weapon) and started to write.

Writing was an encouraged activity, at least for Eli. Dr. Anderson felt that writing would help him work through and release pent-up emotions. She recommended he keep a journal, documenting his thoughts and feelings on a daily basis. He’d never done it. He even told himself that as long as he was at St. Thomas, he would refuse to do anything Dr. Anderson said.

He was writing now, but he didn’t know what he was writing. It was as if his hand moved on its own, as if his body knew something his mind didn’t. He covered the whole front of the first page, top to bottom, and then turned it over, filling the back top to bottom as well. He didn’t know how long he did this, but by the time he was finished, a third of the composition notebook was filled.

He put down his pen and flexed his fingers, then looked over what he had written.

He couldn’t read it. Not because it was illegible, but because it was written in a language he didn’t know. A language that appeared to be of Middle Eastern origin.

~

“Mind over matter,” Dr. Anderson said with confidence. “The manipulation of the brain over the body.”

“Is that your diagnosis?” Eli asked. He was only half-listening, leaning back in his chair, his eyes on the multi-colored carpet in the office, taking in its intricacies while thinking of the writing frenzy he’d had the night before.

“It’s my observation,” Dr. Anderson returned. “I believe these wounds on your body are the result of deeply ingrained psychological guilt.”

“Guilt?”

“That’s right.”

“And what, may I ask, do you think I feel guilty about?”

“Your deployment, for one.”

“And?”

Dr. Anderson pursed her lips. No faux Barbie doll smile now. “And I’m not sure, but there’s something else. Something you’re holding back. Whenever I ask you about life before your deployment, you freeze up.”

“Aha! A clue, Sherlock!”

“Sarcasm won’t help the situation. If anything, it’ll hinder it.”

“You think so?”

“Yes. Because you’re using it as a defense mechanism, the way you used alcohol and sex. It’s a means for you to cope with what’s really bothering you.”

“And these?” Eli lifted up his arms, flashing his holed and stitched wrists. “Are they coping mechanisms too? I did magically will them on myself according to you, right?”

“Not magically, but yes, in a manner of speaking, I think you did ‘will’ them on yourself. The mind is an incredible thing, Eli.” Dr. Anderson folded her hands on her desk, over top of the papers she’d been scribbling on. Her fingernails were long and painted red. Eli stared at them. “Too much worry and you get an ulcer,” she continued. “Give someone a nonalcoholic beverage, tell them it’s alcohol, they’ll act drunk. Have you ever heard of pseudocyesis?”

A drop of blood fell on her right hand, in the crook between her thumb and index finger. Eli’s eyes darted up to find the source, finding it to be two threads of blood pouring from the inner corners of her eyes as though she were crying them.  

He gasped.

“Eli? Are you okay?” Dr. Anderson’s voice was far away. Muffled. Eli didn’t respond, but continued to stare at the streams of blood cascading down her cheeks in perfect, unwavering lines of crimson. If Dr. Anderson had not raised her voice—“Eli!”—and startled him, he would have reached for them to make sure they were real.  

Eli shook his head. “Sorry, I’m fine,” he replied quickly. “What did you say?”

“Have you ever heard of pseudocyesis?”

“No. Sounds like a disease.”

“It’s commonly referred to as ‘phantom pregnancy.’ Basically what happens is a woman believes she’s pregnant so firmly that she develops pregnancy symptoms—morning sickness, massive weight gain, even contractions. Everything except an actual baby.”

“That’s freaky.”

“Just one of the many ways that the mind can overpower the body.”

Dr. Anderson shuffled the papers she had in front of her, straightening them, that artificial smile gradually coming back.

She thinks she’s got it, Eli told himself. She thinks she’s figured me out. “With all due respect, doc,” he said, “I think you’re reaching. You really don’t have a clue what’s happening to me so you’re scrabbling for ideas that fit your narrow scientific view of the world.”

Instantly, that smile was replaced by a disproving scowl. “Well then enlighten me, Eli. What do you think is happening to you?”  

“I don’t know, doc. I really don’t know. And neither do you. But unlike you, I’m not ashamed of that.”

“You think I’m ashamed to not know?”

“I know you are.”

Before Dr. Anderson could speak, Eli cut her off: “Because if you don’t know, or don’t act like you know, you’re not doing your job. You’re not living up to that Ph.D. you have on the wall for everyone to see.” Eli gestured up to it, on the wall behind Dr. Anderson’s head.

Dr. Anderson paused, then said, through her usual synthetic smile, “I think we should cut this session short.”

~

In his room with Larry, Eli thought about what Dr. Anderson said. He sifted through the composition book he’d written in the night before, the Middle Eastern prose alien to him, as though it had been written by someone else. His memory of writing it was murky at best. The book was the only proof that it had happened at all.

Mind over matter, my ass, Eli thought. People didn’t just will themselves to write in different languages. They didn’t just will injuries on themselves and, poof, there they were. They didn’t just will their dreams.

Behind him, he heard Larry lift himself into a sitting position and start talking to himself. He had a habit of doing this, especially in the evening and at night. Eli could never quite hear what he said—he didn’t speak clearly, only mumbled—but he would rub his eyes and temples repeatedly, as though trying to scrub something off of him, and Eli would see the burn marks on his arms. Little pocks of scarred skin that looked to be from cigarette butts. Eli had seen people like him before, mostly in the military. PTSD was hell to live with. Eli knew all too well.

The door to their room opened and a service provider ambled in carrying two small cups, water in one and a pill in the other. “It’s time for your evening med, Larry,” she said.

Eli watched as Larry slid the pill into his mouth, then drank the water in one gulp; he watched as the service provider took up the empty cups and left the room, as Larry scrambled off his bed as soon as she was gone and hid his un-swallowed pill between the mattress and the bed frame, then climbed back into bed and pulled his covers up to his neck. Eli watched all of this in silence. He’d seen it many times before, whenever Larry was given his med. Why Larry hid all his pills in his bed frame Eli didn’t know (he probably had a multitude concealed in there by now), but he never said anything, and he didn’t plan to, either to Larry or to any of the staff.              

~

Showers were once a day for clients, either in the morning at 8:00 AM or in the evening at 7:00 PM, and the clients were given the freedom to choose at which time they wanted to take them. Eli was a morning shower-taker, partly because he’d always been throughout his adult life, but mostly because he wanted to get it over with. It was the worst part of his day. Of all his days. Even Dr. Anderson couldn’t top them.

The last time he’d hated showers was when he was a kid and his foster parents practically had to drag him to the tub kicking and screaming. If the consequences weren’t a sedative and some time in isolation, which meant a padded cell, he might’ve started kicking and screaming now. The shower room was roughly the size of a high school gymnasium, with hot-and-cold gages and nozzles embedded into the walls and drains in the floor. The shower stalls were narrow and had translucent curtains instead of doors. The bottles of shampoo and conditioner and bars of soap were small and noticeably cheap, the wash cloths and towels—which were situated outside of each stall—old and coarse.

Eli always showered as fast as he could. His motto concerning shower time was “get in and get out,” and usually he succeeded. It was a rare day for him to not be the first one finished and out the door.  

This, however, was one of those rare days.

There was a scuffle between two clients a few stalls down to the left of him, and then another client started crying. Some clients rocked and talked to themselves, needing prompting from the service providers who were circling around the room. Nothing out of the ordinary. Eli went about his showering routine of scrubbing himself down as quickly as possible, starting with his face and then working his way to his neck, then his shoulders and arms, then his torso.

He was on his stomach when, once again, he felt something hot and thick trickling down his forehead, and he could tell it wasn’t water.

Again, he touched his fingers to it and looked at them.

Again, he saw that it was blood.

And again, a moment afterward his body inexplicably erupted with pain. This time it was his back. A bolt of white-hot pain shot across it. He fell forward, hitting the tiled wall, and plummeted to the floor where he scrunched into a ball. Another surge of pain followed, and then another. Eli cried out, helpless and defeated. Beads of blood dripped from his forehead and gushed from the holes in his wrists as though they’d never been stitched in the first place. The searing pain traveled through his nerves. His body went rigid. The blood running down his face, chest, arms, and legs mixed with the water on the floor and swirled down the drain.

He felt cold hands touch him and flinched. Turned his head enough to see two service providers, one male and one female, crouched beside him. “Oh my God,” the female gasped, leaning over to inspect his back.

“Looks like he’s gashed up pretty bad,” the male stated.

“But how?” the female asked. Then she addressed Eli: “What happened?”

Her words were muffled. Drowned out by the pain pulsating in his ears. All sounds seemed to be muted. Eli looked passed the service providers, at the clients who were staring at him. Some sensitive ones were crying and yelling, others talking among themselves. Some just stared, bewildered.

“Eli?” the female service provider said. “Eli, look at me. Talk to me. Tell me what happened.”

The male service provider grabbed Eli’s towel from the towel rack outside his stall and handed it to the female service provider. “Here,” he said. “Put pressure on as much as you can with this. I’ll get help.” And then he left.

As the female service provider gently pressed the towel against his back, Eli heard the distinct sound of laughter somewhere in the distance. A hideous, mocking sort of laughter that left a person feeling less than human. Eli glanced around at the other clients again. “Who’s laughing?” he managed to ask.

The service provider looked utterly confused. She pivoted sideways and glanced at the clients herself, then turned back to Eli. “I don’t hear any laughing.”

But it was unmistakable, and it was getting louder. “Someone’s laughing,” he said.

“Eli, no one’s laughing.”

Eli nodded, desperate to be believed. “Someone is! I can hear them—can’t you hear them? Make them stop!”

More voices joined in, and together they laughed and laughed. Eli clenched his hands into fists and raised them to his ears, his face contorting into a grimace as humiliation burbled inside him.

“Eli, hey, hey, it’s okay,” the service provider soothed. “I promise no one’s laughing.”

“LIAR!” Eli screamed.

The male service provider returned with a supervisor. “An EMT’s been called,” he said. “All we have to do is wait ‘til they get here.”

The supervisor took one look at Eli and said, “Oh shit.”

That’s all she had time to say before another burst of pain bulleted across Eli’s back. Eli shrieked and crumbled into a fetal position on the floor, hyperventilating, shaking. All three staff backed away and stared, dumbfounded, at him, clueless as to what to do.  

The laughter continued, rising in pitch until it was almost deafening, with still no one else taking notice of it, and the invisible blows continued, one after another. Again and again and again.

By the time they stopped, Eli was unconscious.
The Gift - 5
I'm a bit late on this to say the least. I've probably lost all my readers (not that I had many to begin with). But anyway, here it is. Now on to Chapter 6!
Loading...
...how much I love this girl's covers. 







  • Mood: Approval

Love to a Borderline

Wed Jan 7, 2015, 10:59 PM
(Note: When I say “borderline” I mean someone who suffers from Borderline Personality Disorder.)

People who do not understand Borderline Personality Disorder often ask if people who suffer from it, such as myself, are capable of love. As much as I want to take offense to this, I’d be lying if I said I didn’t get where they were coming from. Anyone who’s tried to love a borderline will tell you we are hard to handle. We are hypersensitive, possessive, explosive, inconsistent, and desperately insecure. Our relationships are intense and quick to burn out, they’re based on need rather than genuine caring, and they usually end with our non-borderline partners feeling bewildered and wondering if they were ever even loved in the first place. It’s really no wonder people think we don’t possess the ability to love.
   
However, we can love. We do love. It’s just that our self-loathing and sensitivity to abandonment make it difficult (at best) for us to maintain healthy connections with other people. The comedian Groucho Marx once said, “I would not belong to a club that would have me as a member.” Such describes a borderline’s behavior toward relationships. We long for companionship, yet because of deep emotional wounds, we cannot allow ourselves to have it. So we engage in a perpetual push-pull, “get away from me—no, don’t leave me” cycle that reinforces our own self-hate and drives those we love away. Someone gets close to us, we feel engulfed and demand space, but the second they back off, we feel abandoned and cling to them, terrified we’ll lose them. For healthy individuals, trust and intimacy grow over time, but for us borderlines, because we fear intimacy and trust neither ourselves nor anyone around us, there is no hope for a relationship, despite how much we may desire one.

We are hypersensitive and always on the lookout for signs of abandonment. We see these signs everywhere—in a missed call, in a cancelled date, in a criticism (even a polite, constructive one), etc. Our loved ones often feel as though they have to walk on egg shells to accommodate us. Our inconsistency baffles people. One minute we’re proclaiming our undying love to someone and the next, we’re practically spitting venom at them. Our relationships are founded on personal need. When we say “I love you” oftentimes what we mean is “love me.” What we usually love is the idea of love itself rather than the other person.

Why are we like this? Because we didn’t attach to our primary caregivers properly. The people we depended on during infancy and childhood weren’t there for us the way they should have been. A history of abuse and neglect is common for borderlines, and it’s not always clear-cut and in-your-face. Sometimes it’s subtle. For example, I was two years old (still in the early stages of child development) when my sister was born. She was born with a major heart defect that required intensive medical care, which, as one would expect, demanded my parents’ attention. As they spent time with her in the hospital, I was left in the care of my grandmother. My attachment was disrupted. Growing up, my parents were more preoccupied with my sister. I was their “normal” child, the one who didn’t need to be watched so closely. The squeaky wheel gets the oil, so to speak. Meanwhile the good wheel that goes unnoticed slowly rusts. Pre-borderline children tend to be sensitive and easily flustered. Such children require special parenting that they seldom receive.

We borderlines have a habit of chasing after people we can’t have, such as married people or people who live far away. We do this because as children we anguished over longing for our caregivers’ affection and learned to interpret that anguish as love. So to us love must be painful. There can be no fulfillment in it, no joy. Pining for unavailable people keeps the anguish we felt during childhood alive and strengthens our belief that “love hurts.”

Despite our self-centeredness, we are capable of empathizing. When I read stories about parents who have to choose between food and rent, my heart breaks. When I see someone being mistreated, I want to do something. When I hurt a friend or a family member, I feel a crippling sensation of guilt and remorse. If a friend were to tell me they thought we should go our separate ways, I would back off and let them go. I might not do it immediately. I might not do it with a smile on my face, a thumbs up, and a “whatever makes you happy.” If anything I would probably ask them why and then get upset about it in private. But I would do it, because deep down I would want them to do what was best for them. My problem is not a lack of love, it’s a lack of trust. I always assume a person I love will leave, and part of me feels they should leave because I’m not worthy of their love anyway. So I’ll test their love (in various ways, such as saying I’m worthless to get a reaction out of them) and become the abandoner because it’s easier than being abandoned; I’ll set unrealistically high standards for them, and when those standards aren’t met my black-and-white/all-or-nothing thinking (a common BPD defense mechanism) will kick in and I’ll devalue them, because if they’ve let me down that means they’ll abandon me. I’ll keep doing this until, more than likely, my worst fear will be realized: they’ll decide they’ve had enough and leave, creating a self-fulfilling prophecy. And I’ll be back at square one: hating myself.

So in short, borderlines can love. It’s just that our deep-seated insecurities keep us from being able to accept love in return.

  • Mood: Emotional
  • Reading: It's Kind of A Funny Story
  • Watching: An old movie
Key by MrMattRain  not an actual poemHow long can I sit politely on their couch?
He gets me a drink. I get myself
slowly ruined by the shifting of her thighs
and the way she gently touches
what is hers - 
coffee table, fridge door,
her phone,
her walls,
his arm.
Broad-mouthed, slim-throated queen,
I miss the days
when neither of us
owned a thing
at all. 
 Everyone loves Dolls by pLayBbiUm 
architecturethere are poor draftsmen who distill sound
in forty-two proof and forty-nine hundred decibels
that will always sound like wingbeats – maybe heartbeats too
whirring around the scaffolding at three hundred feet
where the men hurl their lunchmeat over the steel beams
far beneath where the airplane will land one day
and they all chant together "THESE ARE THE DAYS
OH YES – THESE ARE THE DAYS" in a trembling baritone
fit through the skeleton of the city that shudders
like a violin shudders – all night long
if it has to – like one of the lonely women
shuddering in the pale light of her living room
cuddled up with her lung disease and the dog
that wanted to be in the circus but settled
for the couch like she settled into her armchair
one day and tried not to get up ever again
even when the ice cream man wanted to love her
and the mail man wanted to buy her a drink
or two when all she wanted was a forty-five
playing in the background like baptism water
or strawberry ice crea
  lightrub your eyes,
find morning
in your hands
in the sugar
in your coffee, sprinkled,
missing
ego torn and locked in your hair
do not feed it,
it is already
obese, on the verge of dying
sleeping. I never closed my eyes,
wrapped in vertigo,
I fell towards you
not for.
our foreheads touched,
our minds opened and then it was just.
bright, orange,
sunrise
 The Double by HilaryJR

--- 0221 by IrinaJoanne  The Southern Land Not Yet KnownDecember can break you
when you live in this  
neck of the woods.
The sun is a tyrant, pressing his
blistering fingers on the mother-of-pearl
and the milk of my thighs, probing at the silk
behind my knees.
Filling up my eyes.
And every summer I feel a little more
like roadkill, hot and bloody
and splayed. The aching pulse
is too much to bear,
the spilling, the rotting,
the rigor mortis knotting up my spine.
-
I can worship this.
I can make this mine.
Faith comes from the scream first,
and it comes from the stillness second.
I see the lapis lazuli of the harbour’s curve,
cold and bright-filled jewel,
and I think I could understand this.
The summer storms, their dark and frantic rise,
the sharply swollen smell in the wetness of the dirt,
the deepest richness of the crumbled earth –
something primal snapping in the sky,
like puking or coming or finally,
finally,
starting to cry. I can understand this.
Salt on my teeth. Salt in my blood
and my sister’s hair. The snak
 Purple sky by FinlandNature
wax by cloudsfall Untitled by mldzz  is my verse alive in amherst?solitude bred ingenuity while safeguarding innocence

self-portrait by LadyMartist Soul-mates by little-naoko  Bird's eyeAn orange cat
elegant and frank
with a slim Egyptian face
and pose
dabs at a wounded bird
in the grass.
I bend low
and wave him off
with a gentle shove
and he relents,
showing me the crook
of his tail,
the Nile
in his walk.
The bird has
tiny beads of blood
between its wings
and under its beak
but the damage appears
to be minor.
Its eyes are wide and gleaming,
wild and deep and black.
They pitch something
inside me
off balance when I
look at them.  
Their blankness
is alive and unknowable,
as if the original darkness
of things lay in there,
the ancient darkness
for which the first light
was phenomenon.
I pick up the bird
and carry it off.
The cat licks
its paw
as if nothing
had happened.

Empty by CezarJ Forgotten Memories by CezarJ Joan of Arc.. by CezarJ 
Leap of Faith by Suvetar  boys dont cryand the way
that your hand
holds onto mine
feels like the noose around my neck,
i'm trying to hang myself
off your
marionettes.
no - 
i'm not dead yet.
but your thoughts
are bullets
and your words are guns
and when they shoot me in the head
you cure it with a band aid
because you don't have
a medical degree yet.
your kisses have left me
black and blue
while i still use
the mug you gave me
as an ash tray.
and i'm holding on
to the lip stick stains
on the dresser
wearing them around my neck
to hide how you took
my breath away.
  the observant curator will notice...the observant curator will notice...
fertilizer falls
softly, mocking the rain, and
horses shuffle, shy
of what could kill
or sustain them
fertilizer rests
slowly dissolving, diffusing
into the earth
reminiscent
of how people curate
their lawns instead
of their families
 
Cold days II by MKAphotography  #3 (my love was born still)i remember the colour of your hair the day that you were born
and the way that your eyes gripped like vices,
refusing to see anything more than your own inner sanctum;
i can still hear the first, curdled cries you let loose into the world.
i remember holding the talisman of your birth against myself
and hearing your gurgling as we drove,
desperate to find relief at the end of yet another road.
i remember the curve of your mouth as you ate softened apples,
the way you struggled to fit your fist between your gums
and the saliva that coated your fingers when you finally gave up.
but mostly i remember the ways i tried to love you,
and the ways in which i managed to fail.
  the writing on the walls.tonight would be
a damn good night
to fall in love
with you.
i'll smoke
one of your cigarettes
because maybe
it will taste like you.
let's have a shot
of cheap vodka
and chase it
with shooting stars.
if you fall asleep in my bed,
i'll wake you early enough
to see the magic of golden sun
on my bookshelf in the morning.

Heidelberg, 2011Heidelberg, your streets run
with the blood of philosophers -
roses and rubies cascade
where they once meditate upon
the river Neckar, the pink stones
of fallen castles to be spat upon
by the people. Heidelberg,
your history outweighs the secrets,
it catacombs through snow
like coffee grains wedged
between wrinkled stones.
The Altstadt is your legacy,
an anachronism; the Hauptstrasse
rambles through like a goatherd
beating a path for sheep; The Universitat
boasts arches and sandstones enduring
on history's pedestal - now lost
in the squall of market stalls peddling bratwurst
in the rain.
Heidelberg, from the Philosophenweg
I can see autumn's shadow collide
past and present, when summer leaves
brown in fainter sunshine, curl and whisk away
to dust the crimson rooftops, the pebbled paths
that once inspired scholarly thoughts.
Under my feet they promise of snow
sleeting from the peaks
of gingerbread mountains, white
and sugary, clumped
and rolled by human hands. I stumble,
and the earth c
  ghost watersher tongue spins tales of poison,
lacing sailors with her forked lies
the ocean rises and falls
with quick, bated breaths from her chest
as the sails of her haunted, bowing ship
billow across waters of lost souls.
she pirates the never-ending seas,
and whispers siren songs
directed at youthful, wide-eyed sailors
lingering along the salted shore.
underneath the carcass of her ship
lies the eternal cemetery of her prey.
their cries echo in the icicle wind
while she laughs at their misery.
bruises and tattoos line her jaw
with one lone scar scraped across her right eye
a haunting symbol that she is
that even the huntress of the seven seas
can be vulnerable at times.
she’s forbidden from dry land,
a wretched curse she cannot escape.
she tricks souls aboard her boat
to gather tales from a land she mourns.
her eyes are glassy and her touch is cold.
the gag is still folded across her mouth,
and the bloodstains decorate her throat,
beside the nightstand sits a suicide note
it reads:
my l
 Drawing my Dreamer by kristina323  

004.a flannel shirt
a cigarette
those downcast eyes
your damn regrets;
your skinny frame
the moleskin book
i really miss
your classic look.
  Early WinterThere's just one Earth, but I can't breathe with the others.
I'm not meant for them—
whether ordained by god
or tossed forward, into each other, by the raging indifference of nature.
Until they stop talking about weather
and the old men— what they wouldn't give for this misery,
wasted on the miserable—
I had said I will love you,
even if you don't love me.
 Glow by ImagineAppleScruffs 
tuesday nightsthe full moon aches.
tuesday nights are always full of statues.
i wonder what it is to be dead. do you remember
the mother? the comedown from the other, write
as an animal, as a breathing piece of fabric--
the fabric felt in the lines.
you are the main event. hold still.
disengage. you are no mercury flower.
imagine imagine imagine. the airplane
coating of skin to bone. all flesh is concentrated
on your ankles.
so much has happened and will happen
before we can respond to this as an end. epicenter.
the spider-work of lines.
the gas station attendant wondering
if he did the right thing.
the sky holding its breath, beware, beware.
there are no other answers.
there is never anything but light,
and light on light never told us anything about what
we needed to know or be or wear or be wary of.
catch the clouds in your hands.
call me miracle, though i am not
a thing of wonder, i am still
miraculous.
i am still a being made of sticks.
watch me fall apart.
exhaustion makes the most beautiful s
 dramatic by HappyLittleMe   throbbin' the hoodthe garden, to be clear, means drone-stained and yonder stands,
and the guerrilla medium with its impression of white, dying horses.
And this, of course, is the body,
the exile,
the tattered moon hung between rocks to protect the forest fire from the wind.
Now comes the part of the poem where I say something specific about myself
so I don't look completely full of shit.
So here it is: The garden is a crowd
in my dream, and my dream, the fragile panic,
and an excess of power-lines and their buzzing,
and a thesis on the institution of marriage-
How you can fuck senators and still be in love with a deserted house,
And the garden is duality,
how one person can exist in two places at the same time,
or be two people at the same place,
and its me the way the santa ana river dries to a valley of stones
and come find me and I miss you and how we're all different people and sometimes we're rooms and sometimes we're oceans and sometimes we're gardens.
 
snippetsi. your hands are maps i wanna memorize inside and out
so i'll always know the way home.
ii. you're dead to me but i keep you alive
on paper and black text.
iii. i will weave stories out of the lines on your skin.
iv. joke's on you: i made my heart out of nothing but brittle plastic,
good luck finding a home in there.
v. empty like a hollowed out pumpkin.
except not as scary,
just more pathetic.
vi. i have secrets that no one knows that i'm scared i will end up
taking to the grave.
i don't know if my soul can handle all that baggage.
vii. i want to hold fire in the palm of my hand
 Sebastian 01 by EirikHenden6 23 by 1LovelyArt 


Basically I went through the first twenty-something pages of my favorites and sought out things I feel deserve more recognition.

Have fun. :D 
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TheEmptyChest
R.M.
United States
Here's looking at you, kids.

Featured by DLD by IrrevocableFate DD Stamp by tRiBaLmArKiNgS Zodiac Stamp 'Sagittarius' by Sharkfold I love these people by Rebi-Valeska I Sniff Books by MademoiselleGrief Old Movies Stamp by SailorSolar Don't know what to say by eranashine Best Writing at Night Stamp by HarukaWind QUOTESQUOTESQUOTESQUOTES by endler ++ BPD Awareness by dimruthien Left handed stamp by WhiteKimahri I Love Fonts by ClefairyKid Stop Learning, Die Stamp by SparkLum Remembered Stamp by WetWithRain It's a peanut in paste form. by Tartly-Sweet Writer by Shadowed-Midnight I Support Lissomer by Aerode I Support chromeantennae by Aerode I Support AyeAye12 by Aerode STAMP: Glasses by Emotikonz The Early Stamp by Busiris I LOVE CATS - Stamp by Kumiko-Art Epic Music supporter by Chrysalislover Classical music stamp by Tollerka Make your life extraordinary by sally65356
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:iconladymurasaki1:
LadyMurasaki1 Featured By Owner 6 days ago  Hobbyist Writer
Thanks for the faves and watch! :heart:
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:icontheemptychest:
TheEmptyChest Featured By Owner 3 days ago
You're very welcome! :D
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:iconmadamearadia:
MadameAradia Featured By Owner Jan 20, 2015  Professional Traditional Artist
Thank you for the fav! :wave:
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:icontheemptychest:
TheEmptyChest Featured By Owner Jan 20, 2015
You're welcome! :heart:
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:iconpianocanival:
Pianocanival Featured By Owner Jan 16, 2015  Professional General Artist
I'm so in love with your writing right now. You're a fantastic writer. Please keep on making art.

You won a watcher. Best of lucks :hug:
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:icontheemptychest:
TheEmptyChest Featured By Owner Jan 16, 2015
Thank youuu!!! :glomp:
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:iconpianocanival:
Pianocanival Featured By Owner Jan 18, 2015  Professional General Artist
My pleasure :D
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:icontheemptychest:
TheEmptyChest Featured By Owner Jan 19, 2015
:heart:
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:iconqqi25:
QQI25 Featured By Owner Jan 11, 2015  Hobbyist Writer
Thank you so very much for the favourite! :aww:
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