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short-term memory.and you'll never forget:

When you realized that everybody dies alone.

When you didn't take your eyeliner off one night, so in the morning
your eyes would look as hollow as you felt.

When you spent a year blacking out the sad endings in your books.
(When you wished that life could also work like that.)

When you learnt that "We need a break" means "I am going to break your heart."

When you fell in love with the stars, and the way he says "us."

When he told you, "More than just a long time."

The first time you hung up to the sound of your father laughing.

When you walked home from a party in January, and couldn't remember
if you were
scar-crossed(my fingers are colder than the solemn blue
buried in her eyes. so much dead beauty,

like an ocean without waves).

she is fading and i cling to her,
and in this tiny little moment
between breaths

we barely even exist.
queen of nothing.what I've learned:

I still remember singing in my room when I was six, and having my mother come down the hall and slam the door so hard that the windows shook.

Her nails hurt when she scraped the tears off my face. "It doesn't matter what you want," she'd always tell me.

Like, when that drunk driver swerved and hit her car – I didn't want her to leave me, and it didn't matter.

Once on vacation I bought a pair of fuzzy leather heels for two hundred dollars, and when I wore them to dinner, I found out that

1. "Suede" is a fancy word for "fuzzy leather."

And 2. Good things don't last: That night my cousin told me that she thought 135
why we cannot sleep at night.i.
we have grown so accustomed
to wearing our masks
and yet
we still wonder why
we feel
so
alone.

ii.
the night sky
is calling my name
and i find that
i cannot close my eyes
because
my corneas are stars
and i'm falling
like coins-
rusted and fading,
forever switching owners
forever out of place

iii.
(sometimes
i think,
loneliness is a disease
and
the world is infected.)
another version of the truthlet's skip through the unnecessary dialogue,
the late-night phone calls where she screams until you hang up,
the "i'll see you next monday,

until then i'll just try to breathe."

let's get to the part where she dies.

 there is poetry under her skin, a pulse that defies everything,
 arteries clogged with stutters and pleads.

 she cut her finger on a paper once,

 and words swirled out along with the blood,
 drenched in a bitterness of sorts.

 (she licked it off, but the words remained,
 spreading across her body like chicken pox).

and it still itches, skin peeling off faster
than you break promises,

do you remember the sun
(almost) like being in loveby the time you begin to miss her,
she'll already be lost.

she is breathing like woodwind,  
plucking stray hairs like harp-strings-
but no melody is sung; and no melody is heard.
you played hard-to-get with the porcelain girl,
as wisps of her neglected words haemorrhage,
swallowed down by deaf ears.
you wanted a chase;
but she's been caught before you've begun,
and now she's choking back her tears to know she's not alone,
as you bite through the ribbons and lick the innocence away
from the girl that's just pretty enough,
before she's forgotten, completely.
Stephanie -Collab(I wrote us in free verse over every inch

               of your tattered surface ).

you were the beatific grin

of a kindergartener high off oxygen,

mouth stretched wide as the entrance to hell,

black tongue bleeding virtuous sin like ichor.

(You taught me praying was for the weak

      as I fell for your gypsum nails,

               white teeth scrabbling over my chalkboard frame).
            
all poets are used to deceitare you still savoring
the taste of deceit
off the edge
of your limerick tongue?
you know what i mean
you "poet of unusual sorts,"
with your
chaotic green eyes
and skin of pale misfortune
leaving scents of sweet seas when oceans
begin to spite you.

yes, your silent panthers,
loyal only to the sound of sonnets
of broken piano chords
and keys and torn six-strings.
those slithe things will
prove to you
once,
that betrayal is just eight letters
of pleasure undercover.

it's these little beauties that
will make you see;
every liar was an artist
and every poet was a whore,
just till the point
they owned you no more.

ever
things that go unspoken(you love this body - this diseased
vessel, for more than it is worth.)
i am only a dead star with
a pretty name;

the afterglow of us
is still my most flattering light.

i can no longer open my mind
like a gift, cram meteors
into my chest to smash the logic
you put there.

i am icarus,

resin-winged in memory:
flying at the thought of
bending and bending and
breaking

for something louder than
romantic inexistence,

longing to explore
the crevices of clouds
and brush past your fog
(as if it is simple, like
catholic school cursive
or
flying)

longing for
feelings that lift
themselves
from the canvas of my lips
and pa
let's pretend this never happenedbecause honestly,
i don't know you and this was
just a big mistake, she says
very softly.
the morning sun peeks in
through the curtain as she pulls
on yesterday's shirt and i catch
my last glimpse of her thin
shoulder blades, protruding like
wings about to burst out of their
seams. she won't look at me.
the floor creaks with her weight
as she gathers her things. i've
already forgotten her eyes, wide
with wonder, and her lips, her
slender jawbone. i wish she
would turn around. i try to speak,
but words don't come.
her bare feet pad across the
room and she pauses in the doorway,
head turned to the side, as if listening,
perhaps to my heavy heart beating.
the set of her shoulders, hunched like
an eagle about to take flight, makes
me think she's going to break into a
thousand pieces, and i long to catch
them all and fix her. i long to know this girl,
this girl without a name who carries
herself like a hummingbird. i want to ask
her about the tattoo that runs along her
spine, quoting
Clichei. true love

& you were that one famous line
of a love poem – 1863 sonnet
scripted down your spine, verses
of sternum & shuddering heartbeat.

i remember the sheets twisted blue
as the eventide, your eyes like thelassia,
that species of ocean grass. we swayed
to the music of galaxies colliding.
our song was the day the tides
finally curled round the moon's face.

ii.  cancer

eventides, thelassia eyes, moon
great and heavy as that one lucky coin
that refused to land, to grant a wish
or let luck decide for us. there were
star crabs scuttling under your
oragami skin. & i never realized
all the ways that you folded
until t
red leaves and Robert Frost.When I was young, my virginity was sacred. Entire religions pray over it and my father bought a gun so long as it meant protecting it.

We throw away half of our refrigerator each week – meanwhile, 24,000 people die of starvation every day.

Hardest part is, sometimes wasting things can't be helped.

At the bus stop, before I could drive, boys would ask for my phone number while I tugged up the neck of my shirt. Asked me how old I was while I crossed my legs under my skirt.

I told them I had a boyfriend even when it wasn't true, because they'll always respect another man more than my disinterest.

Hearing "I love you" for the first time
was it easy?i.

When I met you, I would only bring tragedies up to the rooftop, or down to the street corner, or to the bike cage. You asked me if any of them were true.

"You make the saddest stories so beautiful with that pen," you said, on the same day that we held hands for the first time and I found out you smoked.

It's all we are now, though. Just more depressing words from my pen. You loved my writing that much; and that was more than me, and it ruined us.

-

iii.

The January before you turned twenty-one, you told me you were afraid to become an adult. "I don't want to be somebody a child will hate."

You had always smelled like peppermint, col
astronomerswhen we're together
dusk is containable; the moon in my palms
and the stars on your ceiling.

we lull the city to sleep
with our theories of life; my tongue curling
into speech.

do you remember,
when Jupiter was a silver wick, lighting its countless moons?

that night,
you balanced a cigarette off your lips,
and I watched the vermillion flame burn life
as a newborn sun;

stars forming,
planets moulding and constellations snaked
above our eyes.

i imagined
what it would be like to be curled
inside the embers – creator and destroyer
of worlds,
so close to your lips.
Collection of poetic nothings.We were opal Tuesdays,
mosaic butterflies
tattooed into the
rose garden curve
of my vertebrae,

gliding me through this wild youth.

But, like Icarus—
I was a sky conqueror
& these silk wings

touched the sun.

-

My inhalations are heavy,
like the earth he bruises
beneath his fingertips
as I chase silence.

"You've got a tongue
made for words." He says
against the arrogant thorns
of my briar spine.

"Learn to love yourself."

-

How do I say I love you
without saying I love you?

"I want to replace my heart with you."

-

You are spider silk woven
into my harvest moon
heartstrings, spider
limbs traveling this road map
of s
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More from ~colbalt-rain

Isolated Incident
Author's Note: For this piece - which, yes, is only a one-shot, albeit a very long one, at that - please bear in mind that there will be death, and several implied deaths, as well as suicide, sexual abuse, and generally disturbing content throughout.

The capitalized "They"s refers to the bullies that essentially "killed" Kyle. The crossing out is intentional (obviously) - these are the thoughts Kyle cannot allow himself to think. Kenny has clinical depression in this, which is a deeply personal subject for me, so forgive me if I linger on it. This entire piece takes place over the last two days of Kyle's life.

Enjoy.
-

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Take my friends, Stan and Kyle. Maybe they were really my friends, maybe not. That aside, they both had that special something, the esteemed quality I grasped at desperately but could never seem to claw free. Talent. It was a strange word, melting on my tongue like an egregious pill for my unconfirmed diseases. Kyle was talented. His books were thicker than my wrists and his quick tongue singed me with words longer than I was tall. Stan was talented, too. He could sprint faster than the girls went flying into his
RiotKenny's POV

Hell was a delicious nightmare that I often found irresistible. The night it descended on Earth was my only night worth living.

They called us devil worshipers. We related to the inferno below more than the breath of heaven above and answered to no god. In the streets mothers would turn their children away from us. In school we were left alone in fear of a brutal retaliation. We were famous for that, I suppose – Eric especially. His notorious temper spurred intense flashes of screeching anger that were, at times, impossible to control. Meanwhile, I ripped the world to shreds through searing heartbreak. My frustration was fa

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eight things about growing up

:iconcolbalt-rain:

eight

    I told my brother I was going to be a fairy when I grew up. Or a bird, or sprite – something with wings so I could touch the clouds.

    I learned that fairies weren't real when I was six, after I tried to jump off a parking structure to see if I could fly.

    That day I also broke my leg in three places and saw an angel's face in the clouds. (And don't tell anybody, but sometimes I spend all day looking for him.)




seven

    My neighbors back in Denver had a son who was a schizophrenic. After he went off his meds for the third time, he painted the windows red and told his wife she had to abort their baby because it wasn't human.

    A year later, I heard that he was arrested after pointing a hunting rifle on his family. It was loaded, but he didn't pull the trigger because his mother said she trusted him.



    I guess love is kind of like that, too.




six

    Seattle didn't come until I was fifteen, in October.

    My family and I took a boat ride on Friday. We listened to the captain in the speakers telling us how he'd lost his daughter in an ocean storm.

    He said, "Sometimes when it rains, I'll add a little of my own water."

    After we docked, my father held my hand for the rest of that day. And, even if the rain on his face was by itself, it still breaks my heart.




five

    Until I took my first year of Spanish, I would make two dozen paper cranes every August for my mother's birthday. Then my new professor found me folding the class syllabus on the second week of school.

    "Is this an art course?" she asked a question with no answer, pinching a paper wing between her fingers.

    When I told her it was for my mother, she tore it up and the pieces fell on my desk.

    She told me to throw them out, but I didn't. Instead I sat there, closing my eyes to tears, and waited for the punishment to end.

    I'm still waiting.




four

    My mother knew that something wasn't right long before my father.

    But as soon as she said my name with "hospital", he said hers with "neglect," and their shouting was the tattoo inside my head.  

    But they weren't the reason I stayed up for days.

    Because it's just that, sleeping is really hard when you can't stop crying.




three

    I grew up afraid I wouldn't know how to kiss.

    I thought that, if you fix a broken boy, then you wouldn't have to know because he'd teach you and love you.

    The first boy I kissed pushed me into a bike rack when I tried to ask him out.

    The first boy I fixed took one summer to forget I ever existed, after I was convinced we would marry.

    So instead of learning how to kiss, my father said in litany that I should be grateful for learning early that you can't trust everyone.



    All I learned was that there's more than one way to feel pain.




two

    We were maybe five or six, but they still hated me, maybe because I was new. Or blond with blue eyes. Or I tried too hard when they cornered me on the playground; when they told me to fight and I still got punched.

    Or maybe I just talked too much. Maybe, when talking wasn't enough and I had to scream, I shouldn't have.

    Maybe I shouldn't have tried, either.

    Actually – come to think of it, I really didn't. The nose splint and this memory still in my head say that I didn't try enough.




one

    And maybe. The truth is –

    I was only screaming because nobody ever listened.
:iconcolbalt-rain:
If dA allowed longer titles, I also could have called this:
eight things about growing up that weren't so great.
eight things about growing up that could have easily ruined my childhood.
eight things about growing up that I wish never happened.
eight things about growing up that define me (I'm still trying to figure out if that's good or bad.

And yes, it's non-fiction. Be gentle.
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:iconpastmisfortunes:
~PastMisfortunes Mar 14, 2013  Hobbyist General Artist
I really like this. I believe I've commented on this already. But after reading it again, months later, I kind of see it differently.
Eight things about growing up? These things didn't make up your childhood, did they? They were just things that happened.
And things happen to all of us--or rather, life. I believe I said that too. But there are so many more moments than just these, the good things are there too. If you close one eye to block of half of the world's bad things, you block out half the good, if that makes any sense.
I challenge you to this: Write about eight good things about growing up. I probably sound naive and annoying, but just try it. You may be surprised.
Reply
:iconcolbalt-rain:
~colbalt-rain Mar 15, 2013  Student Writer
I appreciate that notion. And believe me, good things definitely happened to me growing up. But it feels like these moments defined me the most. Happiness is pleasant and important and believe me, it wouldn't be that hard to write a piece about eight good things that happened. I suppose my aim with this story was more to show struggles of growing up, how it's hard but you can still survive it somehow.
Reply
:icondearpoetry:
*DearPoetry Jan 18, 2013  Hobbyist Writer
Your wonderful work has been featured in my journal: [link] :heart:
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:iconcolbalt-rain:
~colbalt-rain Jan 18, 2013  Student Writer
*screams* Thank you so much!! :squee:
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:iconsatellite-head:
~satellite-head Nov 9, 2012
All of your writing is just so omg D;

I'm sorry that all these things happened to you. In the very least, it's made you a great writer. (Or given you great subject matter, I'm not sure which.)
Segment 7 just breaks my heart.

It's hard for me to say I like this, because of all of the painful things in it, but I do like it as literature
Reply
:iconcolbalt-rain:
~colbalt-rain Nov 21, 2012  Student Writer
I used to think that I thought too much and clung to hard to every tiny little detail. Now I realize that they make for great stories.

Thank you very much.
Reply
:iconsvenspade09:
~svenspade09 Nov 1, 2012
I wish I could say I knew how you felt so I could be a shoulder to cry on or a ear to Listen when needed but I don't I haven't lived your life but hope that maybe someday you'll find that face in the clouds here on earth and know happiness because your Deserving.
Reply
:iconcolbalt-rain:
~colbalt-rain Nov 3, 2012  Student Writer
I'm definitely trying.
Thank you.
Reply
:iconrogerthejolly:
Mood: Sympathy ~Rogerthejolly Nov 1, 2012
I understand, because I have been through similar things in my life.
Life doesn't get easier for people like us, we get tougher, and then one day we find someone that can make us smile.

Life is like bridge, if you want to win, you have to be vulnerable.

Best of luck soul-sister, it is doable.
Reply
:iconcolbalt-rain:
~colbalt-rain Nov 3, 2012  Student Writer
Thank you very much, dear. :hug:
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