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postcards and thank you notesdear Carson,
for you my friend, the odds will forever be
in your favor; I know you are a lover,
I know that somewhere inside a child looks up
to the cosmic sky or witnesses the wonder
of gravity for the first time: you are binary,
a paradox— infinite
you are a warrior, a beautiful beacon of light
& warmth & fiery passion; a sun, perhaps, for you
are strong, far more than I: you will never
cease to be a smoldering ember and the earth
will never cease to watch you glow
a candle is a no more fitting form, you are explosive
fireworks, a feather, gentle and delicate
spiritual vulnerability; if all could open the truth
from their pores, acquaint to it over tea as you, I think
we could figure out how sweet the fruits
of unrequited love can really be
I can feel the culture in your bones, the ring of understanding
in your ears— your voice is a psalm from the gods;
your heart, the purest gift to the world. To only an honor
it has been to be aboard
This is how much a body weighsThis is how much a body weighs. Measure in space allowed, not volume. There, in the culmination of an I—it does not exist. Within the idiosyncrasies of a gender, the I is stripped of its identity, and the space it occupies becomes constricting. Let me say: I am not a mutually exclusive being. The weight of my breasts is small only when I’m alone. Shifting fragments, a tectonic wholeness. The curve of a body lying in bed. My tongue arching as I mouth words to the silent dark. Here, in the balance between my teeth, the I is formed. It does not cling fixedly to any body. A weightlessness, perhaps,
too heavy for this world.
Poetic PsychosisIn thirty seconds, the next shell would fall. Every night was the same, but every night Lorenzo experienced it as if it were the first time. His throat felt swollen; breathing was hard. He glanced around at the others; young men like him who had been shipped out in the name of honour and freedom. There was no honour in this, no freedom. Only death behind your eyelids, and a fear so gutting, that it carved out your innards and left you a hollow husk. Lorenzo tried to breathe, tried to assure himself that he was still whole, still made of flesh. They had lied when they told him he was ready.
Matteo ran towards him, arms out, rifle swinging uselessly at his side. He shouted for him to run, but Lorenzo remained motionless, unable to move as his friend’s warning was lost in the constant blare of gunfire. None of them were ready.
“The cycle is repeating. It is not safe.” The voice was soft and weak, yet it carried over the gunfire and battle cries without impediment.
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scheinbar is a much-loved and well-known deviant. Just one look at her gallery, filled with enchanting photography, will have you mesmerized. A deviant for over 7 years, Christiane can always be found posting inspirational features as well as regularly commenting on other deviations and encouraging and empowering her fellow deviants. We are inspired and insist that you too stop by and congratulate ... Read More