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the sculptor's daughterwhen she was created
i taught her to breathe
in ways that would flatter her figure.
before all of this,
i judged her for her fluttering lungs
and rearranged her ribcage.
now, my creation, my masterpiece
is a worthless piece of
glass, reflection of myself,
and she wonders why i reject her.
i only wanted the best for her
(i only wanted a second chance)
but her sixteen-inch waist
cannot hold up the both of us.
time to start over again.
a farewell to rock-bottomi can feel
glaciers, centuries silent,
begin to roam within me.
the cancer that dragged me down
is disappearing in tiny flurries
of black and rotting wings,
it leaves me wild, wide-eyed
and gasping for a breath
i thought would surely choke me.
i am stretched over oceans,
a different pulse
beating through my lacing veins,
and my trembling lips
have never been so sure.
gardeniathe five-a.m. floor protested
my sleepless dreaming.
i got up to make you coffee,
no sugar: you were never fond
of sweetening things that needed it.
i drank it on the autumned porch
in the stupor of dawn
and watched my breath unfurl,
like the smoke you spew sometimes
when you're stressed or have something to hide.
i'm sorry i took
your favorite sweater with me
but i knew it would be cold
in the soil with your secrets
and the brooch she left behind.
a modern opheliashe found fennel beneath her pillow,
and felt the familiar flutter
of glassfish between her ribs.
to distract herself, she
scattered the reddest petals
in her bathwater.
she braided poppies in her hair
let regret invade her lungs.
emma toolips shiny and red,
cheeks swollen with loathing
for that which feeds her deepest fear,
she sways on the scale and
confirms what they all deny.
she papers her bedroom walls
with reminders of her failure,
remnants of her weakness,
entrails of the unachievable end.
she only shows her bones
to smudgy artists drugged
with the beauty of her annihilation.
fever dreamasleep, you smolder, radiating things
you would never admit when conscious.
your secret delusions which churn within you
are burning through your slumbering skull.
you thoughtlessly twist in the covers
you had so carefully turned inside out,
and everything you should have said
is now slicked across your sickly skin.
matar as saudades, you cry and you cry,
but your matchstick bones and paper heart,
all ash-filled, consumed, cremated,
are only proof of a phoenix forming feathers.
Our DutyWe swallowed the path home
Because we were hungry,
Though starving is an ongoing
Story, an empty bag
Dancing in the streets,
Full of an unfastened voice
Walking through the house,
Wind unchained, heart admonished.
Heaven fills its eyes, crawls away,
That sleeping boat content to follow
The vacant waves, intervals
Of dying that we dare not interrupt,
And we watch the kind ear shrinking
From our charcoal docks; heaven
With a full stomach crawls away.
This is what we were put here for.
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^Nyx-Valentine arrived in our community and started whipping everyone into a frenzy with her relentless desire to bring the Artistic Nude and Fetish galleries to the fore. 9 years later, and it's safe to say that Nyx is not only a leader as a photographer in these galleries, but she has also established herself as a much saught after model. ^... Read More