[x]

before, beforei am only just thirteen. he is sixteen. i am in love/lust/crush.

my best friends big brother, or friends ex boyfriend, is tall. once or twice i imagined kissing him. but he never would. he is friends with the boy who is sixteen. and besides he is my best friends big brother or my friend's ex boyfriend. and i am not a bad person.

i am tall too, you know. i am stretched skyward but there was no more to stretch, just bone. so i am not really that tall at all. but i pretend i am. how tall are you? oh above average, you know, pretty tall.

the brother says want to come and see j? and my heart leaps and i sing yes but he only hears a nod and ther

dear diary, today i diedshe's a ghost of a girl in the mirror. dark hair tangles like weeds below her shoulders and cuts at grey eyes. harsh shadows don't leave her with a skeleton like she sometimes hopes, but she feels it in her mind. feels the sharp edges and the trembled fragility, the silent cry for another's flesh and that outward plea of don't break me. cold fingers make love to cold glass while the sky cries over and over for sun.

this afternoon death made to kiss her lips but missed. he'd come so close she now knows what nothing doesn't feel like and she cannot fear it. it's a blankness so removed from consciousness she cannot reach it with thought- but sh

this aprilThe moonlight falls through squinting blinds, bowing softly to hug the arc of his naked body. The blankets are strewn about his toes as a girl, no more than sixteen, lays wide-eyed and warm-bodied beside him.

She silently watches the dreams come and go beneath his eyelids, she quietly feels his chest rise, rise then fall and she listens to the heavy breathing that accompanies it. Beautiful breathing, she thinks, tracing generous lips with fingertips.

The air is cool but she is alight.

Everything in this room bathes in blue shade. She watches the alarm clock beside the bed, numbers coming and going out of fashion before her eyes.

asthmashe smokes marlboro cigarettes with the bedroom door locked. i taste it on her breath, lips and skin everyday after school. her bed is a mattress on the floor. sometimes we make love on it and i wonder if she'd rather have her mouth around a cigarette than me right then. she has asthma too.

she is my second cousin. i didn't know this until two years after we began fucking and three years after i fell for her. i don't think it really matters. emily says if i ever made her pregnant she'd make me punch her in the stomach, heavy and hard. but i never would you know, i love her.

the smoking is killing her. i hid the cigarettes beneath the sink,

sickDeath slouches over the edge of her bed, licking his lips as he caresses her thighs. He sings the noise of wind and rain crashing all around and her head throbs with the sound. Her head is hot. Her forehead is on fire and her cheeks catch alight with it. She burns silently and sees red, red, black.

Tiny insects have crawled beneath her fingernails and they dig with tiny claws and teeth until they are swarming beneath her skin, biting outward at her flesh. Each vertebrae carries bruises and as she tosses her body about the bed they ache loudly and sharply.

All the heat has rushed to her face, her body shakes like a leaf in wind and goosebump

strings of pearls and breathunderwater they are mermaids. patterns of poolwater-caught sunshine dancing in soft-edged white upon their long legs (tails). red hair like ocean fire and fingers ever reaching for the bubbles, like pearls but from out their mouths. darting up between their fingers.

there are places here, beneath here, beneath the sound of their mother yelling at their father and the loud rough of the neighbour’s dog’s bark, where they can breathe. breathe the dead leaves in water whirlpools beneath their feet and breathe the chlorine, leaving eyes red and hair green at the tips. breathe the quiet of their bodies and their imagined underwater world

oh the little thingsIt’d be nice if he'd let me breathe. Just inhale a little air to keep my teeth company- maybe even exhale again when they grow tired of one another. You really don’t notice how wonderful it is to breathe until you’re lying stomach down with empty lungs and the creepy man from the corner store sitting on your back.

But what can I say? Not- ‘please get off of my back, I can feel my spine against my stomach and I don’t like it.’ Because I really can feel my spine against my stomach and am breathless to say such. My cheek makes like feet against the wooden floorboards. This man has a whole forest of trees in here! A

owl boyLight spills like milk from the window. It drips bright upon his face. He is naked, he is the milk spilt from the window to the floor. He is sleeping now.

Sun whistles her breeze in the trees this late August and the birds are drunk with birdsong. He sleeps on through the sound. A quiet, dreaming boy. She kneels and kisses his fingers, soft.

Sun dances, warm and alight, across the sky until she is weary, disappearing with sleep herself. Calling, ‘Moon! Moon! I’m so tired my love, I will fall a moment and sleep’ And he will become her in the sky, following after her until sleep becomes of he, too. And the chase will continue i

lilyat cliff edge my darling dances, tiptoes and windswept honey-gold hair. i say, 'my sweet come to daddy, come here princess, you're scaring me.' but that roar of wind is so loud in her ears she sways and looks upon me a moment like i've been only quiet admiring, never calling. she laps in the taste of salty-wave and sand, and she is magic in all her softness. but she is so close and one toe pushes rock downledge and i'm running, oh dear me, i'm running for my darling on the sea cliff, i'm running and i'm all love for her. for her who is me in those eyes and lips, who is me in those smiles. i'm running and she's stopped, standing with her littl

the fluttered- a collectioni

Hear my joints dislocate, coming apart at the notion of sunlight. It falls and it settles in pictures of loveliness, golden tree branches and hints of leaves; of autumn, of spring.

I am so tall in the water. My legs are never-ending, crooked lines of peachskin- watching my fingers draw out ripples until they strain and buckle and fall into the cool. I’ll touch my toes and loop my figure and I’ll make giant ripples, abhorring fallen leaves and sending shivers of blue through his legs.

It’s a faded crimson red holding my breasts, tugging my hips and leaving my ribcage bare to the current. It’s smudged lipstick and smear

the weeds across the street.She’s the little girl with flaxen curls at four pm flouncing down her driveway with her hands buried in her pockets, lips pressed out like she’s whistling. You’ll watch her out your window, with your tea lukewarm on the sill, and splutter a cough; fogging up the glass just enough to miss her smile.

You saw her once, twice eating petals off the roses in your garden. You’ve forgotten how to converse with children, you cussed between the wheezing and she stared right past like you were simply a knurled twig catching the wind in its leaves.

One morning you found her; purple stockings, blush mittens and a head of sunlight cur

vacant.Look at her; she’s a porcelain doll with never-ending milk legs all stapled to the bed, thirteen years young with forty-eight years suffocating her figure. He’s right up to her baby lips, offering cigarette breath and grinding his stubble on her cheeks, it reminds her of gravel and she closes her eyelids as it falls across her neck, inhaling the cloud of dust.

The curtains are draped across the sky, dried blood red casting shadows she can’t tell the ends of. A dim flicker of a light and maybe a filter of moonshine illuminate the crevasses of his eyelids, forehead and awry mouth. His skin tastes of sweat and earth.

She was wit

flesh puzzlesIn the beginning it was enough. I’d be wide-eyed, quietly watching her through the windows. Limbs and torso like a slender tree; bowing in wind and always shooting up toward the sun. She’d wear summer skin in the middle of winter with freckles spoiling her shoulders and cheekbones. Her birthmark was a dull red stain at her collarbone and she had a mole beneath her left breast. She was thirteen and I thirty, but my, oh my, did I ache to see her insides.

The house next door they called the sea house because it was two stories of cerulean blue. Through my bedroom window I could see naught but an empty bedroom. But late September the P

she sold seashellsfrancesca sits at the sill with swarthy legs dangling seaward. their holiday home cliffs off to the heaving ocean and together they sigh in a breathy unison. wind gushes around her, quieting her with a 'shhhhh' and gently suggesting a fall. she licks dry lips and almost succumbs to the wind's murmurs. how easy it would be for her to slip and fall weightlessly into the warm sea that held her as a child.

every april they come here and every may they leave once more. francesca leaves the city behind- and with bottles of sand and broken shells she tries to bring the sea back with her. but inspiring smoke and exhaling city air will never really b

leavemedon'tleaveme.you make me sick. you make my stomach fold in on itself and press out against the lining of my flesh. you put lumps in my throat and you tie strings to my tear glands and tug until the world is just a panoply of blurred lines, hazy colour and bokeh.

you made me do this. you put the knife in my fingers and you told me to tear, you said you would care if i hurt myself like this. you said you’d care if i opened my flesh up for you like a gift of blood and flesh and tissue. but you never really did.

i like being small, i like being the blue eyed girl sitting amidst background noise, rubber band arms holding the necks of her legs together.

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intoxication

by ~Pretty-As-A-Picture, Mar 13, 2009, 9:45:48 AM
Literature / Prose / Fiction / General Fiction / Short Stories

i see naked bodies in the gutter as i walk queen street at 3 am. they make love, awkward but warm in the concrete curve. i don't place their clothes. i think it is wonderful though. the heat, the heat.

my entire body is rolling from heavy to light, like the shore. my head is humming and my limbs ache dull. there is a sickness in my stomach or in my throat. i think that maybe my stomach is wanting to force itself out my throat- but i won't have that.

i walk further. there are no straight lines to follow but i picture them in my mind and still cannot walk across them. i trip, tumble on the edge of the pavement and no one sees. the alcohol pulses through my blood stream and i begin to shout
i love her, i fucking adore her!

the brisbane night sky answers with an offset of bat noises and far off traffic. they don't understand though, they could never feel this. the sky may love the sun for lighting it each day and the moon for gracing its canvas with a milky glow, but it does not know the love i do.

she is my sun and moon and stars and dew and, she is life. my head throbs. i am not well.

the lovers are streets back. we could be them. but we're not. she has fallen asleep with music thrumming in her ears on somebody's couch and i am walking the city streets intoxicated, bowing to streetlamps.

i am not well.

heat, heat.

i wouldn't mind where we were. just to have the bare skin, the nakedness of her.
it's shooting heroin without the syringe. it's all i want, her, her and nothing but.

she's too far away. i can't hear breath or footsteps or heartbeat and that is why she is too far. i will fall asleep without her but i wish i wouldn't. i can feel it rushing over me, tired mind, tired. there is a bench ahead and why not? home is so far and i can only walk so far before passing out.

it isn't comfortable like she'd be. but i drift, rum blurring thoughts, into fogged and clouded dreams of us.

us (not me and you, not you and i)
us.

intoxicationby ~Pretty-As-A-Picture

Literature / Prose / Fiction / General Fiction / Short Stories

i'm so drunk right now
so it's kind of an experiment
i'm so tired and blur and fog and lines and dizzy stomach
n

-
why won't anyone love me?

please love me.

love 7 7

joy 1 1

~~wow 0 0~~

~~mad 0 0~~

~~sad 0 0~~

~~fear 0 0~~

~~neutral 0 0~~

~Or-Maybe-Its-Love Apr 22, 2011

I'm in love with this.... so beautifully written and so very true.... I admire your mind...

~b3t3noir3 Apr 15, 2011 Hobbyist General Artist

this, just like your photography, is simply stunning. <3 I shall have to try this style of prose, and I will consider myself blessed if it comes out even one fourth as well.

~Neverware Aug 27, 2010

"why won't anyone love me?

please love me.
"
D: What?

~Neverware Aug 27, 2010

"why won't anyone love me?

please love me.
"
D: What?

~Geo-Devin Aug 19, 2010

Well, as it goes in life, I first met your photographs and now have started to 'read' your prose..
They match. Neither makes me wanna puke, vomit or otherwise feel thát ill at ease. No - that is a joke. Because it is 'merely' overdone. An attempt to spread humour.

True is that I noted three lines in my book with 'treasures of proze': "there are no straight lines... "; "the sky may love the sun..." and "us (not me and you...)"

I can never deny you stroke my soul once again. Again there is one more garnishment among my beloved ones.
I hope you receive this compliment - it is my attempt to remedy any pain of yours in return for this vast emotion.
-
Your friend must be the luckiest man on earth (remind him of this line when you argue!) and the sentence "why won't anyone love me" is the result of the booze. Absent when sober..

~thepastismyhostage Jun 3, 2010

You can sence the desparation..
..that we've all felt.

*ersatz-moon May 14, 2010 Hobbyist General Artist

hello

i stumbled across your gallery while reading somebody's piece of writing

do you like writing?
i think you would like mine too

[link]

~Yuzuki-Sensei Mar 5, 2010 Hobbyist Traditional Artist

It felt so real I think I shall have to try writing now when I'm intoxicated. I'd consider myself lucky if it turns out half as good.

~DevinJamie Sep 21, 2009

Every time I read something from someone that was written while intoxicated, I adore it. It makes me jealous. It makes me feel like buying a bottle of vodka and downing it merely to sit down and write, only I don't think I could write if I were drunk. I think I'd end up finding something to do instead of something to write or throwing up my insides or something along those lines.
But this is lovely.

And this? This, right, here
|
|
V
"the alcohol pulses through my blood stream and i begin to shout
i love her, i fucking adore her!

the brisbane night sky answers with an offset of bat noises and far off traffic. they don't understand though, they could never feel this. the sky may love the sun for lighting it each day and the moon for gracing its canvas with a milky glow, but it does not know the love i do."

That is just fucking fantastic and almost frantic in its need to express which is alcohol running its course and making you feel everything x6321564 more than usual.

Love.
This.

~death-carries-a-45 Sep 11, 2009

*flying random hug from a stranger*

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