the vulnerable girl, the borderline adult-girl
Is near to shivering in the delightfully cool air of her dark bedroom
One earbud is muted so that the stream of voices serenading her seems as if covered by a palm;
And she's so close to drifting off into dreamland,
but her ever whirring mind catches a broken phrase; a strum of an old, misguided guitar,
And she uncurls her right arm (bare like the moonlight): it falls over her pillows, horizontal, open wide like a wing in flight, and her fingers loosen on the smooth metal phone previously clutched so tight, as if it were a lifesaver; a soul alight; a dying star. The slender muscles of her upper arm ripple gently
Like grasses flowing in the zephyrs of a cool spring evening.
Ed Sheehan fades into the calm atmosphere, an air tinged with sadness, to be replaced eventually with the most sorrowful tune.
She's wide awake now.
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
The Writer's Double-Edged Sword Speechless. Surely no one in the history of mankind had felt what she was feeling, and she thought herself too uncreative and uninventive to create such a word to express it.
“But aren’t there words?” a voice in her head questioned softly.
“No, not this time,” she replied. This time was different. “This time” was always different.
“There are,” the voice asserted politely. Just that light disagreement caused her hands to start shaking.
“The words I have won’t suffice. I don’t know the right ones,” she stated timidly, her own voice dying.
“Say the ones you know, say it how you know it,” the voice advised gently.
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
Will Draw for 'Cake' and RaffleHi everyone! Happy October!! Although I am busy, I want to work on Halloween themed sketches (of any species)!
So, for 80 each (or a piece of the dA badge cake), I will draw a sketch for you of your character! It'll be halloween themed, and similar to my squishes (examples below)! This is really cheap, just a dollar each for this! You can either donate the 80 points in my donation pool, or give me the cake badge directly. Or, you can ask, and maybe we can trade!
Post your character(s) below if you're interested!
Keep in mind they will not be full digital squishes, just well done drawings, lined.
Kiriban in 43 views! WIN ARTI am leaving for a few weeks! While I am gone, I wanted to remind you all of two things.
1. I am hosting a Kiriban at 1,000 pageviews!
Screen shot the page and note me, and you'll receive a prize!
2. I am hosting a contest ,
check it out for great prizes and a fun theme!
Have fun, talk to you all soon!