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Deviant for 4 Years
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“Whatever you are, be a good one.”
The words stare at us, accusatory, gray in gray with the sky and the cold, right there in front of us. We are crushing wet, brown leaves beneath the soles of our worn shoes without a sound.
At least it’s raining.
That is the one thing I can think about, how I’m glad that it’s raining, because it seems respectful and fitting and just uncomfortable enough to give us a glimpse of what our thoughts feel like, when we feel too numb to remember.
We stand still, in the wind and the rain, and I watch how her sister buries her head between the soaked sleeves of her jacket like a scared child. I can watch them all like I’m not a part of it, like I don’t belong, and it’s so easy that it scares me.
“We should have been better.” Lea’s hand is shaking when she takes mine and squeezes, squeezes so hard that it hurts, but that’s good, because it’s something.
It’s something else than t
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Dear Augustus,
“John Green is wrong”,
I said, in the red dress, the one
That swishes around my legs.
John Green, you’re wrong because
You don’t get to choose who hurts you.
We lock our hands under the stars
When we smell smoke, and
Hoping for the best.
“John Green is wrong”,
I said, when my lipstick and “tonight”
Had both worn off.
“Didn’t he direct that movie?”
Shallow and nice.
“John Green was wrong”,
I thought, when the tide came in,
We are going to burn.
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The kind of love
You're the
Two a.m. kind of love
That's when I
Hit my pillow
Laugh at stupid things
And smoke out the window
You're the
Picking pockets kind of love
Because you
Took without asking
And I didn't know at first
Because my money was still there
You're the
Burn the cake in the oven kind of love
Because I
Kind of forgot
Before the timer went off
But my then the sugar already melted
You're the
Typing error on a typewriter kind of love
Because the page was blank and at least then
It wasn't wrong
And because there is so much noise when I type out:
a l m o s t
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Aurelie, typing (or the joys of drunk texting)
It starts with a
seemingly unrelated cactus
and a "happy Valentine's day"
I send back a picture
of my current drink
My smile a little heavy
When I read
Because that means
Aurelie, waiting
It continues with lots
Of typing mistakes on my side
And "I miss you" kissy smilies
She sends back
And my thumbs are saucy and clumsy
When I wait
Aurelie, typing
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I woke up
To a city in orange-gray that's been up since
       4 am
To last night’s clothes on the floor of
       That hotel room
To that little noise you made when you slept
To my feet tangled in white sheets
(To my thoughts trying not to race).
And I thought
That there are sure nicer and cleaner places than this
But that maybe this wasn’t so bad
Because for a moment there
I could see everything:
I could see everything we were supposed to be.
(But without the hotel room
And without the city
And the white sheets
We just weren't.)
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Short Story
This is a short story about that girl. I don’t know what kind of story there is to tell, though. You know her. You know that girl you think of when you listen to that song with a lot of acoustic guitar and slow lyrics. The one that spilled her drink down her shirt and cursed and then bit her lip. The one that reminds you of good descriptions in books, or a movie scene that probably includes a window with rain drops on it.
Maybe you barely know her. Maybe you walk behind her down the hallway at school and wonder if she can’t find a newer backpack. Maybe she calls you at 1 am and wants to go somewhere. That ‘s the thing- I don’t know where you are in her story. That kind of makes it hard to write.
There’s a jar on her desk at home in which she is saving money. For later. She doesn’t really know what “later” means, but she does it anyway. She’s scared that her parents don’t get along anymore. And in her room above her bed, s
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You smell like fresh flowers
and prejudiced sin
With lit up red windows
and limbs made out of tin
You build bridges with smiles
(that suggest a lot of lace)
And the houses stand tall and crooked
like scrawled letters on your face
You taste like upside down coffee
and worn-out wind on water
Those shaky thick dark bricks
stacked up by your father's father
And legs with heels
And bikes with wheels
wear out your streets
Down the canal the boat is flowing
Since no one's been there rowing
For years
There's too much satin and velvet
For so much cotton
And not enough credit
For so much fame
Yet I am
A fallen victim
Of your spells and your charms
In the middle of
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In elementary school
I had braids and buckteeth
I was too smart to fit in perfectly
The boys tried to impress each other
By comparing the scary movies they'd seen
And two of them asked me to lift my skirt in second grade
And I did because I didn't know that you're not supposed to.
In 9th grade
I had no proper haircut
And everyone said
That I was a little too weird to fit in
And the boys tried to impress each other
By comparing how many girls they'd kissed
And almost all of them thought that they were funny
When they smeared insults on my desk and gave me that look.
And now
When I coming home from a long day
There's a boy I pass at the train station
And I see him in front of me
Thirteen years old with braces.
He looks at me
With my messy hair and filled bag and red lipstick (and the short skirt)
And I don't know what he thinks
But that's okay.
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Word Poetry
"You never listen
"Nice boys are dirty"
"Please stay"
"God showers naked on mondays"
"Almost poetry"
"Make love and drink wine."
"I wonder if it's time to lick my ass"
know          me"
You're gone since a couple of weeks, but the small white magnets are still scattered on the floor, and I can't get myself to put them back in the box. So I sit here and am silently scared that the cracks in the wood will eat up our stupid words that we never used.
At all.
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We met when the dirty january snow on the streets hadn't quite melted yet. They asked for people to go up front and say something because this was about theater, and theater requires a stage. But I didn't know anyone and I was the awkward hippie kid and way too fascinated by people that were shallower than her anyway. And she was shy and quiet because she always is in the beginning.
We became friends when the snow had melted and the first leaves weren't quite strong enough to see the light of day yet. She smiled at me from the end of the room where she was standing, and I didn't pay too much attention as to how I smiled back, and how easily the words came in our conversations. Even the ones where my heart lept up in my throat and I was afraid that it would break my collarbones when we talked about that girl that everyone liked and I cried over in ink, hidden in my notebook, and nobody knew where she ended up.
I only told her months and months afterwards.
We spent spring together on sta
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Mapping out
What you'll find above my heart
Are yellow patches of jealousy and sunlight
They last a season
And will be gone when fall comes around.
What you'll find on the parchment bridge above
Are ink drops that won't ever make proper words
They'll taste like heavy chocolate cake
And a very rushed revenge.
What you'll find in the puddles under my collarbones
Is a late night that sounds like whispers and innocence
(It's lit up by a cigarette lighter anyway)
And daring all the same.
What you'll find when you follow these blue streets
Is nothing and nothing at all
The searching fingertips invisible
And the brinks in the road long gone.
What you'll find when I open my eyes
Is not something I can tell you
Because I tend to get bruised up and knocked over
I tend to grow wings and then have no feathers left
And I tumble and stumble and tumble
What you'll find when I open my eyes
Is not something I can tell you
Because there is no space for words on a map
And silence is not enough.
What you'll find in m
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About us
You with your black button-down shirt
And your symphonies made out of cheesy words
Amongst other things
You were the first
And when we broke
That innocence tasted like bittersweet ice cream on my tongue
Because we were both a little too young.
You with your bossy loud voice
And your demanding look over red lips
Over all that cigarette smoke
You were something else
But there was nothing to break
And my mind was falling trying to do arabesques
Because you simply never knew.
You with your words that raked like hungry hands
And your self-loath I first thought you had without a reason
Before I discovered that you fell out of a Shakespeare play
You were a wakeup call
And I fear that we're breaking
As I fall out of my bed and stare at letters upon letters upon letters
Because you tend to hide behind descriptions of them.
You with your glass jar of soft smiles and lake afternoons
And unsaid words stored on your bookshelf that I keep staring at
Since looking at your face is
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Pink Vodka
"Is he quite comfortable?"
You quoted that play
That we both brought on stage
And I laughed
Before I pulled away
And left the trace
Of my parted red lips
right there on your cheek.
"Is he quite comfortable?"
I was quoting that same line
When your nose kept brushing my jaw
And our giggles
Told vines and lines and lies
About how sober or drunk
We both were
Or pretended to be
"Is he quite comfortable?"
Nobody quoted anymore
Because I have ridiculously small hands
And they fit so well with yours
And we didn't let go
Because losing each other in the crowd
Was too good of an excuse
To pass up
And we stood there
Under the neon lights
That made my make-up look a little slutty
And I was silently wondering
If your cheek tasted like pink vodka with lemon soda still.
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Catlin by queenoflattes Catlin :iconqueenoflattes:queenoflattes 0 1 Stand in Black and White by queenoflattes Stand in Black and White :iconqueenoflattes:queenoflattes 0 2
Tectonic plate
Tectonic plate
The rain knocks vertically against my window, in the middle of late August.
The actress in my favorite movie opens her mouth- and says the same word, over and over again.
The clothes on my side of the closet aren’t neat stacks anymore, and yours are laughing at them.
My hair is sticking up in every direction, lately also when it’s not raining.
I’m throwing everything on the floor: Books, keys, plates. Nothing breaks.
I even stopped biting my nails, did you know that?
But this one song (I can still hear how you try to sing the guitar solo)… This one song still sounds wrong.
Everything is a little askew. Everything is a little out of focus. A little offbeat. Some earthquakes too many, a- what are they called again? Tectonic plates. Parts of the earth that are constantly moving, bumping against each other and then drift apart.  One of these. A tectonic plate that keeps crushing against mine. Earthquake after earthquake after earthquake.
And eve
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Artist | Student | Literature
Welcome to a world of filled notebooks and 2 am poems and red lipstick stains on coffee mugs. I hope you enjoy your stay.


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