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Written by paintingskies in portal Poetry & Free Verse

Woman, Simple Machine

For her twenty-first birthday, my sister asks for a knife

because she is convinced the world is a gunfight.

Our father never taught her how to throw the first punch,

how to harness her potential energy and make it kinetic.

She has only learned how to own her inertia:

how to sit stationary, 

how to hike home before sunset,

how to park beneath a street lamp because my mother is convinced

that evil obeys the principles of physics,

thus it cannot occupy the same space as light.

I wonder why she believes this theory,

which applies only to particles at a microscopic level,

because her own evil sits at the head of the table

at our family’s Christmas dinner

and he does not melt under the bulbs’ fluorescence.

I know at least six women who have broken Newton’s third law of motion,

who have had forces exerted on their bodies

without being able to produce an equal and opposite reaction

because their mass did not matter,

their will did not factor into the equation.

Mathematically speaking, this makes sense,

because will is neither vector nor scalar

and these girls were not quadratics waiting to be solved.

The men who cried gravity were just grasping at straws

at an acceleration of 9.8 m/s2.

There was no force but friction between them,

but again, it’s like the case of my mother—

she could no longer resist the pressure.

Which is worse: to be water or an isotope?

I see Hooke’s Law in action when I witness women working.

They stretch in proportion to the stress

exerted on their bodies until the strain is too much to bear

and they snap, reduced to shapeless substances

that can only borrow the forms of the flasks they occupy.

The others have shouldered too many neutrons for so long

they are radioactive, destined to spend their nights rubbing oil

on their sore backs as they degrade.

My sister observes the decay.

My sister asks for a knife because she is afraid of her half-life,

the rate at which she discovers she is a lever to be pulled,

she is a mass to be displaced,

she is an object to be acted upon.

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Written by paintingskies in portal Poetry & Free Verse
Woman, Simple Machine
For her twenty-first birthday, my sister asks for a knife
because she is convinced the world is a gunfight.
Our father never taught her how to throw the first punch,
how to harness her potential energy and make it kinetic.
She has only learned how to own her inertia:
how to sit stationary, 
how to hike home before sunset,
how to park beneath a street lamp because my mother is convinced
that evil obeys the principles of physics,
thus it cannot occupy the same space as light.
I wonder why she believes this theory,
which applies only to particles at a microscopic level,
because her own evil sits at the head of the table
at our family’s Christmas dinner
and he does not melt under the bulbs’ fluorescence.
I know at least six women who have broken Newton’s third law of motion,
who have had forces exerted on their bodies
without being able to produce an equal and opposite reaction
because their mass did not matter,
their will did not factor into the equation.
Mathematically speaking, this makes sense,
because will is neither vector nor scalar
and these girls were not quadratics waiting to be solved.
The men who cried gravity were just grasping at straws
at an acceleration of 9.8 m/s2.
There was no force but friction between them,
but again, it’s like the case of my mother—
she could no longer resist the pressure.
Which is worse: to be water or an isotope?
I see Hooke’s Law in action when I witness women working.
They stretch in proportion to the stress
exerted on their bodies until the strain is too much to bear
and they snap, reduced to shapeless substances
that can only borrow the forms of the flasks they occupy.
The others have shouldered too many neutrons for so long
they are radioactive, destined to spend their nights rubbing oil
on their sore backs as they degrade.
My sister observes the decay.
My sister asks for a knife because she is afraid of her half-life,
the rate at which she discovers she is a lever to be pulled,
she is a mass to be displaced,
she is an object to be acted upon.
#poetry 
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Written by paintingskies in portal Nonfiction

What Would Jesus Eat?

Somewhere, in the catacombs of the computer’s motherboard, there is a photo of me wearing an oversized t-shirt with the Nutella logo on it. Chocolate is smeared across my chin, my forehead, my cheeks. I smile widely, showing off the specks of cocoa powder between my teeth. If you look closely enough, you can even see the batter stuck in my hair.

I am baking brownies with my mother for a pitch-in at her work. As an adolescent, I am not that useful in the kitchen, but my mother allows me to mix the triple-chocolate batter and the peanut butter-hazelnut spread anyway. We both know that I am truly here for the clean-up. After the brownies are in the oven, I begin to “help,” working only as hot water, washing all of the utensils dry with my mouth. I remove the whisks from the mixer one by one and lick them clean, carefully sticking my tongue between the slits of metal, lapping up every drop of the batter as if I am one of those bone-thin extraterrestrials posing as a starving child in Africa. But the camera says otherwise. My mother snaps a photo of me while I am busy working to polish every speck of the spoon that is caked in sugar. When I am finished, she shows me the picture and laughs. “It’s perfect,” she says, pointing at the mess on my face, “it’s so you.”

I have never loved my body. This is not to say I remember actively hating my flabby arms and chubby stomach as a child, having memories of standing sideways and naked in front of the mirror and sobbing. Rather, I hated myself in smaller ways. I remember constantly wondering if I could carve the fat out of my stomach like I could a pumpkin. I remember feeling ashamed and disgusting every time my father measured my height and weight against the wall of the shoe closet on the first day of school. I remember having to keep my friends from entering the shoe closet whenever they came over, because I couldn’t have them seeing how much I weighed. The number haunted me.

My family is a food family, and by that I mean we value cooking, and by that I mean we are all big-boned. Although my mother considers cooking to be a chore, she works as if it is an art form and our plates are her canvas. Pork roast, Hawaiian sliders, chicken gnocchi, baked lasagna—when she is finished, our stomachs are on the brink of bursting, leaving the walls of the house looking like Pollock paintings.

When I open my lunchbox in the cafeteria the next day, a leftover brownie in hand, I am greeted with a scoff by my classmate, Skinny Girl #1. Although she stares at the treat longingly, her voice reveals disgust. “I can’t believe you’re eating that,” she says, but it sounds more like “Ikea be leaves you’re the Iliad” because I am so focused on the taste of this brownie that I can’t hear a thing. It’s taking all of my senses to even begin to appreciate the morsels of art I’m chewing. Fuck DaVinci and his Mona Lisa. If I die from happiness, fly the remains of this brownie to the Louvre.

Because I’m practically on the brink of experiencing a food orgasm, Skinny Girl #1 has to repeat herself, louder this time. She flings her empty milk carton to the side—of course she’s a lightweight who can only handle skimmed milk—to the table. “I can't believe you're eating that,” she repeats until all eyes are on me.

​I finish licking my fingers clean before I ask, “why?” genuinely wondering what her issue could possibly be.

​“Because she’s on a diet!” Prettier Skinny Girl #2 protests, standing up for her less-pretty friend. Following my instincts, I roll my eyes, not giving a single shit about Skinny Girl #1’s diet because a) we’re fourth-graders, and fourth-graders shouldn’t have to diet, and b) her “diet” changes every day, usually coinciding with whatever the cafeteria is serving.

“And it’s Friday,” Skinny Girl #1 says, tossing her slick ponytail over her shoulder.

This remark really throws me for a loop, considering Fridays come around pretty often, and this is the first time anyone’s ever really felt the need to tell me about it at lunchtime. So I shrug and continue cleaning my face, wiping the icing off of my lips, trying to become blissfully unaware of my reality once again.

“God, Samantha,” Skinny Girl #1 says, “it’s Lent.”

Oh, yeah. I forgot about that. The season I always confuse with Advent, the season of giving versus the season of giving up. Although we’re still kids in Catholic school, we’re taught to take Lent seriously. With a gulp, I swallow the rest of my dessert, grappling for an excuse for my behavior. “But I’m not eating meat,” I assure my classmates, simultaneously trying to reassure myself that I am not a Deadly Sin. I’m no Glutton. I’m definitely not breaking my “sacrifice” either—there’s no way in hell I could last forty days without chocolate—the trick is to give up something easy. But Skinny Girls #1 and #2 are onto me.

“It’s not meat,” Prettier Skinny Girl #2 says, “but you’re not fasting, and that’s gluttony. You’re a pig.” She smirks at me, along with Skinny Girl #1 as they jokingly play priest and command that I repent for my sins.

They have tapped into my biggest fear—the world seeing me for who I truly am. Suddenly, I am ashamed and guilty and angry all at once. Part of me wants to apologize for my lack of self-control, for not being as disciplined and as beautiful as they are. Another part of me wants to spit, “why don’t you crucify me?” but I don’t learn that phrase until my senior year of high school. Instead, I flee the cafeteria, feeling persecuted like Jesus was as he marched toward his own death.

That night, when I look in the mirror, I see a smorgasbord, a sow with flab like leather. I am a part of a food family, but I am angry because I only have myself to blame. I don’t take my faith or my health seriously enough, and I don’t know if I ever will. Maybe if I go to Mass more, God will grant me the loss of ten pounds. That’s how it works, right? I slam the bathroom door shut as I trudge into my bedroom. To soothe my feelings, I gorge myself on chocolate.

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Written by paintingskies in portal Nonfiction
What Would Jesus Eat?
Somewhere, in the catacombs of the computer’s motherboard, there is a photo of me wearing an oversized t-shirt with the Nutella logo on it. Chocolate is smeared across my chin, my forehead, my cheeks. I smile widely, showing off the specks of cocoa powder between my teeth. If you look closely enough, you can even see the batter stuck in my hair.

I am baking brownies with my mother for a pitch-in at her work. As an adolescent, I am not that useful in the kitchen, but my mother allows me to mix the triple-chocolate batter and the peanut butter-hazelnut spread anyway. We both know that I am truly here for the clean-up. After the brownies are in the oven, I begin to “help,” working only as hot water, washing all of the utensils dry with my mouth. I remove the whisks from the mixer one by one and lick them clean, carefully sticking my tongue between the slits of metal, lapping up every drop of the batter as if I am one of those bone-thin extraterrestrials posing as a starving child in Africa. But the camera says otherwise. My mother snaps a photo of me while I am busy working to polish every speck of the spoon that is caked in sugar. When I am finished, she shows me the picture and laughs. “It’s perfect,” she says, pointing at the mess on my face, “it’s so you.”

I have never loved my body. This is not to say I remember actively hating my flabby arms and chubby stomach as a child, having memories of standing sideways and naked in front of the mirror and sobbing. Rather, I hated myself in smaller ways. I remember constantly wondering if I could carve the fat out of my stomach like I could a pumpkin. I remember feeling ashamed and disgusting every time my father measured my height and weight against the wall of the shoe closet on the first day of school. I remember having to keep my friends from entering the shoe closet whenever they came over, because I couldn’t have them seeing how much I weighed. The number haunted me.

My family is a food family, and by that I mean we value cooking, and by that I mean we are all big-boned. Although my mother considers cooking to be a chore, she works as if it is an art form and our plates are her canvas. Pork roast, Hawaiian sliders, chicken gnocchi, baked lasagna—when she is finished, our stomachs are on the brink of bursting, leaving the walls of the house looking like Pollock paintings.

When I open my lunchbox in the cafeteria the next day, a leftover brownie in hand, I am greeted with a scoff by my classmate, Skinny Girl #1. Although she stares at the treat longingly, her voice reveals disgust. “I can’t believe you’re eating that,” she says, but it sounds more like “Ikea be leaves you’re the Iliad” because I am so focused on the taste of this brownie that I can’t hear a thing. It’s taking all of my senses to even begin to appreciate the morsels of art I’m chewing. Fuck DaVinci and his Mona Lisa. If I die from happiness, fly the remains of this brownie to the Louvre.

Because I’m practically on the brink of experiencing a food orgasm, Skinny Girl #1 has to repeat herself, louder this time. She flings her empty milk carton to the side—of course she’s a lightweight who can only handle skimmed milk—to the table. “I can't believe you're eating that,” she repeats until all eyes are on me.

​I finish licking my fingers clean before I ask, “why?” genuinely wondering what her issue could possibly be.

​“Because she’s on a diet!” Prettier Skinny Girl #2 protests, standing up for her less-pretty friend. Following my instincts, I roll my eyes, not giving a single shit about Skinny Girl #1’s diet because a) we’re fourth-graders, and fourth-graders shouldn’t have to diet, and b) her “diet” changes every day, usually coinciding with whatever the cafeteria is serving.

“And it’s Friday,” Skinny Girl #1 says, tossing her slick ponytail over her shoulder.

This remark really throws me for a loop, considering Fridays come around pretty often, and this is the first time anyone’s ever really felt the need to tell me about it at lunchtime. So I shrug and continue cleaning my face, wiping the icing off of my lips, trying to become blissfully unaware of my reality once again.

“God, Samantha,” Skinny Girl #1 says, “it’s Lent.”

Oh, yeah. I forgot about that. The season I always confuse with Advent, the season of giving versus the season of giving up. Although we’re still kids in Catholic school, we’re taught to take Lent seriously. With a gulp, I swallow the rest of my dessert, grappling for an excuse for my behavior. “But I’m not eating meat,” I assure my classmates, simultaneously trying to reassure myself that I am not a Deadly Sin. I’m no Glutton. I’m definitely not breaking my “sacrifice” either—there’s no way in hell I could last forty days without chocolate—the trick is to give up something easy. But Skinny Girls #1 and #2 are onto me.

“It’s not meat,” Prettier Skinny Girl #2 says, “but you’re not fasting, and that’s gluttony. You’re a pig.” She smirks at me, along with Skinny Girl #1 as they jokingly play priest and command that I repent for my sins.

They have tapped into my biggest fear—the world seeing me for who I truly am. Suddenly, I am ashamed and guilty and angry all at once. Part of me wants to apologize for my lack of self-control, for not being as disciplined and as beautiful as they are. Another part of me wants to spit, “why don’t you crucify me?” but I don’t learn that phrase until my senior year of high school. Instead, I flee the cafeteria, feeling persecuted like Jesus was as he marched toward his own death.

That night, when I look in the mirror, I see a smorgasbord, a sow with flab like leather. I am a part of a food family, but I am angry because I only have myself to blame. I don’t take my faith or my health seriously enough, and I don’t know if I ever will. Maybe if I go to Mass more, God will grant me the loss of ten pounds. That’s how it works, right? I slam the bathroom door shut as I trudge into my bedroom. To soothe my feelings, I gorge myself on chocolate.
#nonfiction  #creativenonfiction  #draft 
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Written by paintingskies in portal Stream of Consciousness

i remember to forget

it is so hard to forget them. they are carved into my brain with a steak knife i often want to stab into my lower arm—being classified as an emergency, placing my belongings in trash bags, removing the strings from my sweatshirts, getting a bracelet slapped on my wrist, undressing so the nurses could poke and prod my flab to check for cuts from self-harm, sleeping on a bed in the lobby, waking up to white walls and a kid yelling and a kid screaming and a kid crying but that kid was me, lining up for my medicine and being instructed not to to hide it beneath my tongue, speaking to the doctors, lying to the doctors, watching rudy twice because it was so goddamn inspirational, thank you hansel, attending group therapy, speaking the same word over and over, breaking it down and down and down, suicidal suicide suicidal so i belong here suicidal but i didn't have the guts suicidal but i don't belong here suicidal two years later and no i don't know if it'll ever go away

so i write these bullshit poems about the people i met and wish i'd befriended in better circumstances because i like to think it helps me cope. it probably doesn't but that's my hope. i pretend they had this profound effect on my life when in reality we were all just transitions for one another, ships passing in the night but i pretend they were my lighthouse because i think i think it'll make the situation seem better, make it sound like i got something out of being admitted to hell even though i didn't. my parents say they got their daughter back but sometimes i think they're kidding themselves because i am still brainstorming ways to kill myself and i've come up with a pretty long list. but instead of writing them out i write pathetic bullshit poems like this:

to emma-

i hope you've eaten today. i hope you've swallowed happiness and a square meal whole.

to ben-

i hope you've stopped shrinking. i hope you're proud of your mass. you matter.

to serenity-

i hope you're still hopeful. i hope you've spoken to your father and he's reminded you of how you are more than that acronym.

to ashley-

i hope you have found a home. i hope the map of the streets fade off of your hands. 

to levi-

i hope you've stopped hiding, or at least cut your hair.

to carter-

i hope the anger has dissipated, and that you smear your shit where it belongs.

to bethany-

i hope you let your art lead you, but not speak for you. 

to brianna-

i hope you figured out why you were there. 

to bridget-

i hope you've stopped pretending to faint when you're upset. i hope you wheeled your way out of the system. 

i hope you are all in a place with plastic forks and shoe strings, where the chairs are light enough to not anchor you down. i hope you never have to watch rudy again. i hope that ward is a distant memory, not what it still is for me.

to myself-

i hope you stop wanting to return. i hope you forget about the people you invested too much meaning in. they didn't even know your name.

try to celebrate your progress, not the six days you spent as less than human.

there were the worst days of your life.

and i didn't even know them. and they didn't even know me. but maybe if i romanticize those days enough, twist them, crumple them into a paper ball, they'll be easier to swallow.

been trying for two years now. when my method works, i'll let you know.

sometimes i want to go back because there is comfort at rock bottom. sometimes i wish i'd killed myself two years ago, or three, or four. sometimes i feel alright, but then i remember community north. the yogurt. the safety plan. the desks. the beds. the nurses. how they looked through our folders each night, confiscated the papers that i wrote all of alex's information on in case i ever forgot.

i don't know what else to say. i don't know why i want to keep writing, why i want to memorialize this, because making a monolith of memories is the complete opposite of making them go away. but this is what i do best: obsess and overthink everything, which is why i haven't hurt my body yet. i am the world's least successful suicide. an emergency, but only if you're not busy. i wish i was an immediate threat.

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Written by paintingskies in portal Stream of Consciousness
i remember to forget
it is so hard to forget them. they are carved into my brain with a steak knife i often want to stab into my lower arm—being classified as an emergency, placing my belongings in trash bags, removing the strings from my sweatshirts, getting a bracelet slapped on my wrist, undressing so the nurses could poke and prod my flab to check for cuts from self-harm, sleeping on a bed in the lobby, waking up to white walls and a kid yelling and a kid screaming and a kid crying but that kid was me, lining up for my medicine and being instructed not to to hide it beneath my tongue, speaking to the doctors, lying to the doctors, watching rudy twice because it was so goddamn inspirational, thank you hansel, attending group therapy, speaking the same word over and over, breaking it down and down and down, suicidal suicide suicidal so i belong here suicidal but i didn't have the guts suicidal but i don't belong here suicidal two years later and no i don't know if it'll ever go away

so i write these bullshit poems about the people i met and wish i'd befriended in better circumstances because i like to think it helps me cope. it probably doesn't but that's my hope. i pretend they had this profound effect on my life when in reality we were all just transitions for one another, ships passing in the night but i pretend they were my lighthouse because i think i think it'll make the situation seem better, make it sound like i got something out of being admitted to hell even though i didn't. my parents say they got their daughter back but sometimes i think they're kidding themselves because i am still brainstorming ways to kill myself and i've come up with a pretty long list. but instead of writing them out i write pathetic bullshit poems like this:

to emma-
i hope you've eaten today. i hope you've swallowed happiness and a square meal whole.
to ben-
i hope you've stopped shrinking. i hope you're proud of your mass. you matter.
to serenity-
i hope you're still hopeful. i hope you've spoken to your father and he's reminded you of how you are more than that acronym.
to ashley-
i hope you have found a home. i hope the map of the streets fade off of your hands. 
to levi-
i hope you've stopped hiding, or at least cut your hair.
to carter-
i hope the anger has dissipated, and that you smear your shit where it belongs.
to bethany-
i hope you let your art lead you, but not speak for you. 
to brianna-
i hope you figured out why you were there. 
to bridget-
i hope you've stopped pretending to faint when you're upset. i hope you wheeled your way out of the system. 

i hope you are all in a place with plastic forks and shoe strings, where the chairs are light enough to not anchor you down. i hope you never have to watch rudy again. i hope that ward is a distant memory, not what it still is for me.

to myself-
i hope you stop wanting to return. i hope you forget about the people you invested too much meaning in. they didn't even know your name.
try to celebrate your progress, not the six days you spent as less than human.

there were the worst days of your life.

and i didn't even know them. and they didn't even know me. but maybe if i romanticize those days enough, twist them, crumple them into a paper ball, they'll be easier to swallow.
been trying for two years now. when my method works, i'll let you know.

sometimes i want to go back because there is comfort at rock bottom. sometimes i wish i'd killed myself two years ago, or three, or four. sometimes i feel alright, but then i remember community north. the yogurt. the safety plan. the desks. the beds. the nurses. how they looked through our folders each night, confiscated the papers that i wrote all of alex's information on in case i ever forgot.

i don't know what else to say. i don't know why i want to keep writing, why i want to memorialize this, because making a monolith of memories is the complete opposite of making them go away. but this is what i do best: obsess and overthink everything, which is why i haven't hurt my body yet. i am the world's least successful suicide. an emergency, but only if you're not busy. i wish i was an immediate threat.
#nonfiction  #psych  #anniversary 
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Written by paintingskies in portal Haiku

don't worry, love, there's still pain somewhere

chin up, you can't cull

everyone's ghosts. sometimes you

have to haunt yourself.

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Written by paintingskies in portal Haiku
don't worry, love, there's still pain somewhere
chin up, you can't cull
everyone's ghosts. sometimes you
have to haunt yourself.
#haiku 
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Written by paintingskies in portal Poetry & Free Verse

no

no \\ adverb. 1. a negative used to express dissent, denial, or refusal. 2. what your mother insists when you beg to leave the house after dark / because she has lost faith in the midway / and the men who serve you coca-colas at the state fair / who swat flies and offer you drinks on the house / if you kiss them on their cheeks. 3. a shake of the head / when he asks you to dance / a hand to his hip / when he twirls you anyway. 4. the pit that forms in your stomach when he calls you a pretty young thing / asks for your number / asks if you’ve got a boyfriend / asks if you’ll meet him out back / behind the dumpsters / where no one will see you, baby. 5. the prayer you weep when his will smothers yours. 6. a whistle / a stun gun / a dagger disguised as eyeliner / lipstick pepper spray / brass knuckles / car keys / mercy. 7. the first word you teach your daughter.

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Written by paintingskies in portal Poetry & Free Verse
no
no \\ adverb. 1. a negative used to express dissent, denial, or refusal. 2. what your mother insists when you beg to leave the house after dark / because she has lost faith in the midway / and the men who serve you coca-colas at the state fair / who swat flies and offer you drinks on the house / if you kiss them on their cheeks. 3. a shake of the head / when he asks you to dance / a hand to his hip / when he twirls you anyway. 4. the pit that forms in your stomach when he calls you a pretty young thing / asks for your number / asks if you’ve got a boyfriend / asks if you’ll meet him out back / behind the dumpsters / where no one will see you, baby. 5. the prayer you weep when his will smothers yours. 6. a whistle / a stun gun / a dagger disguised as eyeliner / lipstick pepper spray / brass knuckles / car keys / mercy. 7. the first word you teach your daughter.
#poetry  #freeverse  #politics  #culture 
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Written by paintingskies in portal Music and Rap

cry wolf

they say i cried wolf but i was shouting / calling out the ones who said they built my mountain / claimed i only climbed the peak / only chose to speak after they'd all spoken 

nah / i built this land with these hands too / grown this man from his mama's roots / when i leave you'll feel the avalanche / catch yourself before you fall through / watch me quake and make the ladies loose / one day you'll see you lost your grasp on glory cause you're blinded from the soot

got too many people asking their mama's if i'm a fraud / not enough tugging on their jackets looking up and asking if i'm god / got so many girls on their knees / begging baby please that i might need my own cross

hands nailed to the board / i can tell she's wanting more / thinks i'm her savior / she's praying later i'll press my body against hers / when she sees i'm hung like the son of god she parts her legs like the sea / opens her mouth / begs for rain so i come a downpour / drown her between my knees

she doesn't ask me where i've been but asks me to take her there / i tell her it's my turn to steer / wrap my fingers in her hair / baby in the backseat / stick shift / straight up / always out of fuel cause she can never get enough

she's real good like a lady / when i ask her to taste me / on my chest she licks the sweat / on my breath she smells the gin / she says i taste like dollar bills but she kisses me like i'm mint

baby even roars when i'm tame / start real slow / let her go / but it always ends the same / tastes the heat in the night / she says she wants to take a bite / when she opens her lips and howls baby i'm the one to blame / cause when she cries wolf she's only screaming my name

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Written by paintingskies in portal Music and Rap
cry wolf
they say i cried wolf but i was shouting / calling out the ones who said they built my mountain / claimed i only climbed the peak / only chose to speak after they'd all spoken 

nah / i built this land with these hands too / grown this man from his mama's roots / when i leave you'll feel the avalanche / catch yourself before you fall through / watch me quake and make the ladies loose / one day you'll see you lost your grasp on glory cause you're blinded from the soot

got too many people asking their mama's if i'm a fraud / not enough tugging on their jackets looking up and asking if i'm god / got so many girls on their knees / begging baby please that i might need my own cross

hands nailed to the board / i can tell she's wanting more / thinks i'm her savior / she's praying later i'll press my body against hers / when she sees i'm hung like the son of god she parts her legs like the sea / opens her mouth / begs for rain so i come a downpour / drown her between my knees

she doesn't ask me where i've been but asks me to take her there / i tell her it's my turn to steer / wrap my fingers in her hair / baby in the backseat / stick shift / straight up / always out of fuel cause she can never get enough

she's real good like a lady / when i ask her to taste me / on my chest she licks the sweat / on my breath she smells the gin / she says i taste like dollar bills but she kisses me like i'm mint

baby even roars when i'm tame / start real slow / let her go / but it always ends the same / tastes the heat in the night / she says she wants to take a bite / when she opens her lips and howls baby i'm the one to blame / cause when she cries wolf she's only screaming my name
#poetry  #freeverse  #rap  #erotica 
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Written by paintingskies in portal Micropoetry

blame prometheus all you want,

say the fucker stole your fire,

but know this—

you always were a slow burn

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Written by paintingskies in portal Micropoetry
blame prometheus all you want,
say the fucker stole your fire,
but know this—
you always were a slow burn
#micropoetry 
28
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Juice
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Written by paintingskies in portal Poetry & Free Verse

dust to dust

to the sawdust that raised me

and blew me back to life—

i am trying not to come home

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Written by paintingskies in portal Poetry & Free Verse
dust to dust
to the sawdust that raised me
and blew me back to life—
i am trying not to come home
#poetry  #micropoetry 
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Written by paintingskies in portal Poetry & Free Verse

portrait of a woman

we were too young to be legends but he wanted to leave his mark, so he used my skin as his canvas. i accepted. i bit my lips, plugged my ears, and closed my eyes, emptying my body of all it had to offer so it would be ripe for the harvest, ready to be coated.

his favorite color was violet. he dotted my cheeks with bursts of blue, drizzled some red in the background and let it clot. added ice to counteract the swelling as the black faded to yellow. he framed it so he was superman and i was a soundbite. his fist, my breath, speech balloons. he called it pop art.

when he wanted to keep things simple, he'd smash my teeth into a mosaic, just to kiss each piece and place them in rows and columns, rows and columns, each line etched by god. he collected the colors my gums bled in vials. he called me a stain. he would not work with pigments that had no purpose, he would not rest until my mouth decomposed to silence, until my molars aligned with the nails on the floorboards and all of my matter was squared away in boxes with walls ready to rupture.

eventually he knocked them over like dominoes and swept them to the side. cubism, he said, does not look good on you. he asked me to pose with him and i obliged. i wanted to be good for something. as we undressed, he asked me not to make a scene, told me his art was only a summary but it still had meaning, said if i thought i was more than a crude expression of reality then i was dreaming, called me a stain. he said he wished he had chosen a pigment that he didn't have to strain. he told me to detach my head from my soul and let him in, let him in, let his motifs cull. he drew his brush and began to paint, began to pant, and brushed shapes across my chest with his lips, each circle the size of my breasts, each spiral bigger than the next. he said we were an infinite pattern, an illusion.

when i had nothing left to give, he hung me up at the bar next to a portrait of a woman, bruised like a peach.

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Written by paintingskies in portal Poetry & Free Verse
portrait of a woman
we were too young to be legends but he wanted to leave his mark, so he used my skin as his canvas. i accepted. i bit my lips, plugged my ears, and closed my eyes, emptying my body of all it had to offer so it would be ripe for the harvest, ready to be coated.

his favorite color was violet. he dotted my cheeks with bursts of blue, drizzled some red in the background and let it clot. added ice to counteract the swelling as the black faded to yellow. he framed it so he was superman and i was a soundbite. his fist, my breath, speech balloons. he called it pop art.

when he wanted to keep things simple, he'd smash my teeth into a mosaic, just to kiss each piece and place them in rows and columns, rows and columns, each line etched by god. he collected the colors my gums bled in vials. he called me a stain. he would not work with pigments that had no purpose, he would not rest until my mouth decomposed to silence, until my molars aligned with the nails on the floorboards and all of my matter was squared away in boxes with walls ready to rupture.

eventually he knocked them over like dominoes and swept them to the side. cubism, he said, does not look good on you. he asked me to pose with him and i obliged. i wanted to be good for something. as we undressed, he asked me not to make a scene, told me his art was only a summary but it still had meaning, said if i thought i was more than a crude expression of reality then i was dreaming, called me a stain. he said he wished he had chosen a pigment that he didn't have to strain. he told me to detach my head from my soul and let him in, let him in, let his motifs cull. he drew his brush and began to paint, began to pant, and brushed shapes across my chest with his lips, each circle the size of my breasts, each spiral bigger than the next. he said we were an infinite pattern, an illusion.

when i had nothing left to give, he hung me up at the bar next to a portrait of a woman, bruised like a peach.
#poetry  #prose  #freeverse 
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Written by paintingskies in portal Poetry & Free Verse

we the wolfmen

listen: there is a reason for the howling. we growl because it’s the only way we are heard. we are only listened to when we bare our teeth and break skin, and even then we are only met with a mere moment of attention before you twist the dial up on the radio and change the channel so our cries are out of range. you make us white noise, we raise our voice, and so it goes.

listen: very few of us still have our voices. most of our vocal cords have been plucked from our larynges, skinned, cooked, and chewed right off the bone. hear them smack their lips as they strip us of all that we have. we have nothing.

listen: we tried to be gentle. we tried to shake hands with the system and instead we wiped its spit off our wet cheeks. we retracted our claws, and our lion hearts were led to hope like sheep to slaughter. they invited us to dinner and served us our sisters on the plates, used our flag as a communal napkin to wipe their greasy mouths, toasted our blood in flutes of champagne. after dinner, they walked us out, exiled us from their backyard, their fields, their states, their oceans. they gave us a gallon of gasoline and a lighter and said goodbye.

listen: we must go out snarling. we will sleep in the crackles of the static, crouch and hold our breath between the waves and currents, bathe in electricity until we are ready to wage a lightning war. heart, kidney, sternum. we will never strike the same place twice. see our blitzkrieg socking streets near you. watch the sidewalks bleed pepper spray and tear gas.

listen: these actions cannot echo any longer. repetition rubs shoulders with insanity, and history herself cannot survive another night of close quarters. we have grieved so much for our brothers that we do not have enough energy to mourn for ourselves. there is a reason for the howling. we are only wolves when we have to be.

listen: they want us extinct. we understand this confuses you. we understand that to you, this word has no meaning. we understand you cannot feel the magnitude of this earthquake.

listen: you have never been trapped so you do not know the muzzle, you do not recognize the confinements of the cage.

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Written by paintingskies in portal Poetry & Free Verse
we the wolfmen
listen: there is a reason for the howling. we growl because it’s the only way we are heard. we are only listened to when we bare our teeth and break skin, and even then we are only met with a mere moment of attention before you twist the dial up on the radio and change the channel so our cries are out of range. you make us white noise, we raise our voice, and so it goes.

listen: very few of us still have our voices. most of our vocal cords have been plucked from our larynges, skinned, cooked, and chewed right off the bone. hear them smack their lips as they strip us of all that we have. we have nothing.

listen: we tried to be gentle. we tried to shake hands with the system and instead we wiped its spit off our wet cheeks. we retracted our claws, and our lion hearts were led to hope like sheep to slaughter. they invited us to dinner and served us our sisters on the plates, used our flag as a communal napkin to wipe their greasy mouths, toasted our blood in flutes of champagne. after dinner, they walked us out, exiled us from their backyard, their fields, their states, their oceans. they gave us a gallon of gasoline and a lighter and said goodbye.

listen: we must go out snarling. we will sleep in the crackles of the static, crouch and hold our breath between the waves and currents, bathe in electricity until we are ready to wage a lightning war. heart, kidney, sternum. we will never strike the same place twice. see our blitzkrieg socking streets near you. watch the sidewalks bleed pepper spray and tear gas.

listen: these actions cannot echo any longer. repetition rubs shoulders with insanity, and history herself cannot survive another night of close quarters. we have grieved so much for our brothers that we do not have enough energy to mourn for ourselves. there is a reason for the howling. we are only wolves when we have to be.

listen: they want us extinct. we understand this confuses you. we understand that to you, this word has no meaning. we understand you cannot feel the magnitude of this earthquake.

listen: you have never been trapped so you do not know the muzzle, you do not recognize the confinements of the cage.
#poetry  #freeverse 
19
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Juice
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