Story of the womanHere is the story… Several years ago here comes the woman and asked me to create her portrait… I told her that usually i do not answer to such requests, but i will see what i can do… A few weeks ago i have found that sketch and decide to finalize the portrait, but the trick is that i have no clue about who she was and she did not leave me any address or even name…So all i could do is cry something like "Anybody seen my baby?!" However some people told me that she is married and have six kids or something like that… Still cannot believe in this, but it explains why she never get back to portrait of her – probably it is very hard to her to find budget for 6 kids and she more in need in some diapers than canvases… So i decide to do not looking for her, but sell that series of portraits to you…
sun girlshe taps her fingernails against the door of the car as she restlessly drives forward in afternoon traffic, intensely aware of Sun Girl (who she usually admires from afar), stopped behind her, visible in every rear view mirror
and who would have ever thought she would find someone to write about in late night poetry? her wrists are painfully fragile and the other girl is made of iron and steel, easily the most athletic of all the girls in her grade; ivory and gunmetal woven into something angelic.
the new june air was warm on her skin; sun reminded her of soccer fields and green grass, of her, long (now short) golden hair, hazy blue eyes, of ocean, of sky -- endless sky. time stood still in that moment; sunset-haired girl mused meekly of how both their first names began and ended with their first and last initials, and wondered if it was all fate. or all coincidence.
you're lovely, don't you know that?I'm (sorry?) too confused to be with anyone just now. But I'd (jump at the chance to) be with you in an instant if you wanted me to. I can't explain it. Do I need to explain it? Would you get me just like that? I hope you would, more than anything in the world; it is small, my hope, but so big, probably bigger than my heart. (You're just a "could" and not a "should" in my head. I'm so goddamn immovable that that's all you'll ever be, most likely.)
The weird thing is that I look at you with an emptiness and almost a vague dislike when I see you. And in my delirious eyes, you look at me with a slight desire. But that's unthinkable. You're so way out of my league. We both know it.
The thing is that I don't even know you. But I feel like I do. And I feel as if you think so too. It's crazy. I'm crazy. I have no doubt you don't feel the same way. I don't even know how I feel.
But I know that I feel. Feelings are the blue of your eyes and the thrumming of my heart when I see you.
oh, it's just your usual midnight poetry gal A little cold sweat clings to her lower back and legs, which are exposed to delightfully cool 12:02AM bedroom air, atmosphere that had been brewed with a hint of remorsefulness and more than the recommended dose of insomnia.
White tee shirt sticks to her chest and spine, pulling this way and that as she turns, curling into one position, tosses into another; soon, the fabric will become infuriating and she will rip it away from her fragile skin, though her mother tells her it is crude to sleep without clothes on. Her lips are chapped and dry, like her patience and personality.
She suddenly misses the weight of the blankets on her stomach. They are a gentle reminder to her that her abdomen holds too much fat and she's uncomfortable with that, but she's also uncomfortable with change.
Night cloaks her lovingly. The storm outside beckons, and she goes to it willingly, as she shuts her dark purple eyelids and succumbs to the eventual dust of dreams
waves over a bobbing head/lighthouse eyesi went half a minute downing (cold) cold water, after a day without
(it's like loving) it is to drown yourself with clean oceans,
there is power without breathing,
a willingness to sate the soul before tending to the
and just then, i thought, i wouldn't mind dying if
i could do it in the middle-middle, the mid-elevation
of the center-point of the pacific,
as angry waves pound down on my soft body,
my calm bones.
the raging fire in my blood would still after a time,
leaving ice to take over,
and my lips would become my favourite color,
my eyelids would return to their dreams,
and my heart would be taken by the thorny mermaids to store for their
own purposes: curses, remedies,
whatever they might need.
this weaknessi am soft and weak.
my mother once told me
she wished she had a curvier body (while looking at mine),
but i'm only rounded edges because i hold fat that i
cannot turn to muscle;
i am weak because i am weak,
my heart is full of self pity and selfishness.
i stand in the hot shower, not wanting to
move at all because i sense no point in acting. i
stare at the fogged up glass and the condensation
dripping down the crying mirror, fat droplets, sad and heavy like i am.
lethargy dominates the bathroom, paces about the shower,
presses me against the wall and licks my bare skin with his dusk tongue.
i feel ten types of happiness, while rooted to the tile.
simealtanously, i am colored in twenty hues
of anguish, only because i deny movement (i refuse myself,
i am my own stray animal).
i am monochromatic, and weak,
and insanely, impossibly euphoric all at once:
this what heroin does to people.
i believe (it gets us killed, belief) i have a high pain tolerance,
but do i dare test that hypoth
talking to the night againyou think im all cold edges and a white ceramic plate,
polished and blank-slate,
emotionless. you are a fool. i feel so deeply and ache
so darkly that i wonder at times if it is
a pain a human being could tolerate.
my heart isn't big. it is heavy and everywhere.
on her hipbones, i see bruised landmarks, (pooled), rose-petal-scarlet peninsulas
curled inwards together, touching at their tips, spreading outwards like flower petals
stained by sunlight.
there is an italy at the crest of her upper thigh, a small boot-shaped mark that has been there since the day
i met her; it is a purple-yellow now,
muted, sinking and distant, just
like the conversations we had on the second night we shared together (we were too scared to speak on the first night).
broken paths trace their way up her flanks,
running their courses out until their inevitable meet at the swan dip
of her collarbone,
bluer than the skies above,
singing richly of life and earnestness.
it is a blue that i think quite frequently about, an unnamed blue identical to the blue of bloodless lips, a hue the twin of
the blurred, azure edges where a yellowed crescent moon meets a pitch sable blanket,
a single celestiality kissing the invisible horizon line at midnight.
when i pla