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too fucking beautifulnote: this is backwards, and for a reason.
I didnt bury her; I couldnt.
She was too beautiful; just too fucking beautiful.
Even when she lay there with her flesh in puzzles and the skin on her face rotting to expose her cheekbones and the empty spaces underneath them, she was like a doll; a beautiful, disgusting doll. I still call her love, but she doesnt answer.
She screams, and I run the silver blade over her stomach again. I dont press hard enough to cut, but I press hard enough to make her silent. I turn back to her feet, and push the end of the knife under another nail. Its gorgeous; the way the blood trickles when I slowly push the knife in, and the pours when I take it out; it reminds me of rivers and of the tears that trickle down her face.
She closes her eyes, when I tell her Ill kill her. I think maybe shes imagining that shes picking white roses from her garden again. The way she je
mornings on suburban trainsdearest, you have thunder in your eyes
and lacing your fingertips
the mornings that you sit across from me on suburban trains; they are the brightest mornings of all. i could spend the whole trip admiring each curl in your hair and the shape of each fingernail if only i had the time. sometimes our legs brush when we sit across from each other, and my heart skips, but i don't think you even notice. your gaze lingers on the scenery outside the window; as if you wished you were outside too. as if the train was a cage.
if only you would let me, i could brighten your mornings too.
the afternoons that we exit the train at the same stop, they are the warmest afternoons of all. we split ways at the end of the station; i go left and you go right, but listening to your heels tap against the concrete even for thirty seconds makes me want to hold you in my arms and never, ever let you go.
the morning you smiled at me, i think my heart stopped momentarily. you had off-white teeth and dimples
i will be a birdit is the day before christmas and she's waking up her car. the windows are frosted over and the car seat is freezing beneath her. she sits up and opens the door. outside it is windy and she feels goodebumps run up her spine. her fingernails are digging into the cold skin on her bare legs and she's on the verge of tears. she doesn't cry though. she never, ever cries.
it is three days after chrismas and she's laying in her back yard on patches of dead grass, shaking. she's shrouded in coats and blankets but its raining and once the water seeps through the cotton it clings to her skin. she's drinking champage mixed with rain water from a paper cup and she's imagining that this is how she'd like to die. cold and lonely, waiting for the morning sun.
its the last night before the new year and she's not watching television. she's sitting in front of it though, and letting the noise wash over her. it's almost like white noise. she's somewhere else though, she's imagining that her family a
his caged birds don't singit was like when we were five
and unable to drown the fish
in your mothers aquarium.
we later realized that we could drown them.
we could do so by taking them out of water
and we did.
it was like when we were ten
and i would find you in the backyard
of your moss-covered house,
sitting on a lawn chair with bare feet
and rolled up jeans.
you would sit there all day,
filling plain paper with pictures and words
that no one would ever understand.
it was like when we were fifteen
and you would spend your time standing
as close to the cliff as you could without falling
but i think you were secretly hoping
that someday youd slip.
it was like today
when you were finally the first to look away.
what do you want most? you once asked.
back then i wanted a lot of things.
i wanted to believe that sex was only science,
like you did.
i wanted to live in a world where nameless,
faceless people could pretend
they were something more than no
mechanici want to kiss every aching wound you have,
bandage your heart every time it bleeds,
and patch up your mind over and over
because not a single tear deserves to fall
from your brandy-drenched eyes
but this dripping heart of mine can only feel
and the healing honey words it flames get caught
in the back of my throat and on the roof of my mouth
so i only have these passionate guttural cries
to tell you that i care all too much
and in order to fix you up again,
i would need to tear myself to tatters
and trade all of my working parts
for your leftover, fading pieces
but i just haven’t figured out how.
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Bluefley has a gallery filled with artwork that whisks you off in to a Sci-fi daydream, and keeps you captivated for hours. Marc has been a member of our community for over a decade and has achieved nothing but success with his astounding commitment to interacting with the community, sharing a prolific amount of video tutorials and generally being an all round rockstar deviant. It is no joke that we are absolutely delighted to award the Deviousness Award for April 2014 to ... Read More