SpinelessMy mother always told me I was born with four spines. They stay there, side by side, in my ramrod straight back, the reason for my very correct posture. So when my back began to arch, people noticed.Spineless by UntamedUnwanted
My parents were first. You look different, they would suppose as I would approach every morning for breakfast. Is something wrong? My mother would question. Are you ill? My father would ask.
I had a gift with the vague and I used it to my only advantage in this scenario. Because telling them the truth would be a lot more devastating. How would I tell them about the fact that my bones, my spine, the very part of me they admired most, was depreciating?
I suppose the trouble with most relationships is to trust someone, knowing that you would willingly lie to them, just to protect them from getting hurt. We all do it, and those of us who claim we don’t, only lie because their lies are smaller. I lied to protect them from what had happened to my bones. Not just my spi
Broken Sleep, Red LipstickI am only an insomniac when it rains. The pitter patter of the raindrops reminds me of the pitter patter of cat paws.Broken Sleep, Red Lipstick by UntamedUnwanted
(He liked to sleep at my feet when I could barely think, just to make me feel better. I think you used to tell him to.)
I wish I could wrap your memories around my spine and wear them as a backbone, because they are stronger than the arch my broken spined back seems to have developed of late.
(Spines are oddly brittle, and a lot like wrists. Easy to break and forever to heal.)
But I cannot depend of any of that anymore. So I wear red lipstick and high heels and go to parties and tell strangers how amazing they are to be wearing red lipstick and high heels and how different they must be to come to this party instead of the other one.
(All because you would hate parties and think nightlife is so stupid.)
It is what I do with my insomnia. Because my spineless back, the memories of you incessantly looped in my sleeplessly addled brain and the raindrops
Never Let Him Look South WestThe distance between Dublin and Boston is approximately 3000 miles. You told me this when you were staring south west with the kind of madness I have only seen in sailor’s eyes when they lived in lighthouses too small for their giant ship dreams. It should have worried me, that glint in your eyes. I just dismissed it as one of your navigational tantrums.Never Let Him Look South West by UntamedUnwanted
When we went to the pub later that evening, you told me I should have the fish and chips, but the way you like it, with more vinegar and no tartar sauce. I said that made it too salty, and you told me that was how real sailors ate their fish. My reactions always were slow to your behavior. I believe the expression ‘at sea’ was applied more often than not when you spoke.
I never thought that the walks you mentioned on the beach when we were children had any more to the idea than the romance of it all. So when you told me you belonged to the sea, I thought you were talking about your soul.
It never truly meant anything
FragmentsI call them fragments, the parts of me that were too exhausted to stay. He calls them flecks because I am a flake. I wish I was a flake. It sounds prettier than being a fragment. Flakes are like snow. Soothing, falling from the sky on the tip of his tongue that melt and disappear. Fragments are archeological findings of a scarred past we really should not remember.Fragments by UntamedUnwanted
I want to remember my scars. So I am a fragment.
I draw on my legs. When my skin dries out, I use my index finger as a pencil and draw what the clouds are trying to tell me. Sometimes it’s a dog, and sometimes it’s a bear and sometimes it is his face looking at me disapprovingly.
That is when I stop drawing.
At night, when the rain falls, I sit at the bay window and pretend to write stories whilst he pretends to sleep. “What are you writing?” he will ask in his asleep voice. “A funny story.” It is not. It is a pale, scary story, and it looks like my skin. “Were you dreamin
The Girl Who Was Afraid To BeShe speaks to me fondlyThe Girl Who Was Afraid To Be by UntamedUnwanted
of passions and talents,
of guitars and stars,
with such breathless intensity
then stops short and
for speaking at all.
All because somewhere in her life,
someone she loved broke her heart
her beautiful words
and telling her to
keep it down,
People aren’t born sad.
We make them that way.
A Prayer for the Scar Mappedi hope you find someone who loves you for your scars.A Prayer for the Scar Mapped by UntamedUnwanted
your scars are the battles you fought
alone, scared, broken at midnight
navigating the map of your lost soul,
wearing nothing but threadbare dreams,
with demons who would not die,
and who could not rest.
and still strong, you fought on.
i pray you find someone who loves you for your scars
your scars will tell the stories your lips cannot.
your scars will reveal secrets your heart cannot.
your scars will create meaning to the little things you do.
so find someone who loves you for your scars.
this is all that I can pray for, for you
and for you,
and for you...
enduring biopoiesis getting over itenduring biopoiesis by fake-theory
in quick gasps of rabbit fur
and valley tangles
we would have
had such darling
strung out on fake roses
floating on our sun-striped backs
but we're so
some world-children cutting
out, tuning in yet
|The words and works of some really inspiring writers.|
[transmissions of a dead girl]i am the
moon: i am
the silver pill
to weigh down
into leaden eyes--
i am the
of the dark.
the stars are
all dead in their
you'll be safe, dear,
as i am the moon,
with all of their
(i am good bye and yet,
you think only of romantic
i am the moon.
i am the crescent
and dead altogether,
i still die.
now i see the stars.there was a time when i
couldn't catch my breath whenever i
thought about you , (crippled lungs and-
boy, you hit me like an asteroid,
there's a crater on my chest now that I can't ever seem to fill,
oceans of my tears cried on
nights when you couldn't be there to sing me to sleep.
thirty two poemless days after you joined the constellations,
i walked out into the yard and howled to the empty sky,
for a moment i was Gaea, rivers running down my cheeks,
weighted to the ground and
buried in myself, but
where there is no light there are no shadows, and
sometimes, i wonder if i miss me.
yes, yes i do.
i may not see the moon, but
i always was the girl who danced with thunderthey've issued
a flash flood warning
and i am thinking
about our legs
tangled like tree
roots beneath the
the screen door
doesn't latch anymore
and the wind is
trying to tear it
away and i am
listening to it
scream and hearing
you say my name.
the roads are wet
and treacherous and
all i am thinking about
is you and your
wet lips slippery tongue
roadside teeth in my
skin and the sky is
falling down around
--all of these warnings
are just another metaphor
olivearmies march in time,
shouting and stamping
into Vietnam swamps
with booming voices
and dirty boots.
a soldier can't keep up,
falls to the side in tall jungle grass
and vomits out his homesickness
into the damp shrubs.
while the American girl
giggles and taps her nails
on the grimy paint of the bar,
chewing the toothpick
of her martini.
outside, leaves curl into mulch,
and summer shrivels
like a rotting pea pod.
Tutelary's Untangled QuiltTutelary's Untangled Quilt
Pull God's filament
till stripped phantoms ascend in
up and out
of their beds -
the sun smiles,
and reaches down
to embrace them
Of Chocolate Frogs and Pepper ImpsAges ago, life
was breathed into stone; he seeks
the timeless reward.
In darkened halls an
evil lurks; sweet child, dare not
look it in the eye.
And even on the
brightest eves take heed, beware
the night’s palest face.
In the wake of death
there is rebirth, though hardly
in equal measure.
The future foretold
is valuable but must be
bought through sacrifice.
We know there is strength
in numbers, the enemy
is informed as well.
Peace has high costs, paid
gladly for the greater good;
friendship conquers all.
jackal grinMy orange peel
lips split: the beams
a deck of cards
nana’s worn porch,
and fingers weaving
through grass blades
when the light is
soft and warm.
(have you f
I misspelled our love, and that's where we went...I always thought I was a sparrow, nesting in tomorrows like the moon would drop from her orbit and gift me firmer ribs. I thought men and love would fall from dimples and roses, but I found out they drop much like you: unceremoniously and jumbled. They break wings… and god, the sound… but I guess they sing as they work, and that’s got to be well-meant.
So I fondled November like it fondled me, caught it early in the middle of snow angels and hayrides so it could feel the unexpected earthquake of ‘molested’. The world strung me from those letters, giving the past not only a face, but a name, as it bent gravity over horizons ‘til I could only see his toes. I puked a watercolor of someone else’s impact, and maybe that’s the worst: not knowing if I’m the one moving, or if you’re still writhing inside me like worms and April rain.
the definition of dangerhe is alabaster porcelain;
only so many heaped spoonfuls
of disappointment in a china
cup he is smoke he is mirrors;
here today, gone tomorrow
he's nothing more than a
he is icarus incarnate well-designed party trick.
he believed he could rise above
us rise above himself -
poised to fall he is a stardust sunburst.
one moment, a flare of beauty
Paper TownsI found you in innocent parks
next to a rotting corpse.
We passed each other in hallways
mirrors directing our course.
I pulled you out on a night of adventure
I vanished out of sight.
I loved you forever and always
I just wanted to watch the lights.
You searched my trail of fragmented clues
and saw the hearts of your friends.
You stayed in empty buildings just like I did
but I laid in towns that paper penned.
The hunt warped the world in glass,
gave you eyes to see truth
My strings broke,
you felt the grass,
and we saw each other in cracked submarines.
Because for all your hopes and wishes
only the finding found me.
weighted down1. I am sixteen, suddenly.
I have grown up without anyone
telling me. My car keys rest heavily in
my palm. Each new college I hear about
rests heavily on my shoulders. I am
not sure how much longer I can take this,
all this extra weight of responsibilities, of choices,
of the future I’m not sure I want to have.
My skin feels stretched across my body
in places that don’t really make sense.
I still feel too big in every bad way—I’m
afraid I always will.
2. My first boyfriend tells me he
thinks I must have bits of the
universe inside of me. I try not
to get offended: I know he means to say
that kissing me is like kissing stars,
and that I hold the secrets of creation
inside my soul, but all I can think about
is how huge the universe is.
3. He breaks up with me at night.
For hours, I lean against my truck in
the driveway and look at the sky.
Stars are cold and distant,
I realize. The universe is big
4. Someone in my philosophy class tries to tell me
In TimeI wait:
underneath my thoughts,
through its riverbeds.
tears fall into dry banks
memories fill them.
Lost and FoundHe has prayed as much
as he said "I love you"
in both cases
they were inaudible
Occasionally you can hear him
when he traces the outline of you
similar to the way
a stroke induced December
remembers to speak spring
like he's seen you before in his dreams
You can hear him
when his eyes linger at your smile
as if he could find faith
from your light
trapped, imbedded in insecurity
his way is a broken record even the deaf could listen to
He will not say I love you
not because he doesn't
but because you can not hear a man
you have yet to meet
but when you do, oh god, you will be brutally aware
Because with love like his
you could drown twice
and not want to come up for air
I am a twenty five year old tree who likes to dream about Van Gogh's canvases in real life. I love whole milk, and never get into bed without bed socks. My favourite place is the space under my desk that serves as a fully functional panic room from time to time. |
Favourite writer: Oscar Wilde, Neil Gaiman, Germaine Greer.
Favourite poet: Sylvia Plath, William Wordsworth
Society6 Page: society6.com/NikitaGill
Nothing Lives Foreveri.
ObsessionIt takes 14 minutes and twelve seconds to walk to your home from mine every day. Your mother never fails to smile at me when she opens the door. I never fail to notice that it doesn't reach her eyes anymore.
|The wonderful and beautiful BloodshotInk who is one of my favourite writers here on deviantart has written the most beautiful piece which I would love to share with you. I was so moved by this I cried. What a lovely present. Thank you, my dearest! |
Peonies + PoetryNiki sat under the cherry tree in her cottage garden on a large teak rocking chair. She was absorbed into another world by the tatty pages of poetry she rifled through. They were well worn and finger-smudged, but she had refused to let her husband replace them because they were, as she put it, well loved.