Phases of Compassion Pt. 1 by Blessfullyshocked, literature
Literature
Phases of Compassion Pt. 1
It is funny how at our first taste of blood we react with glee. How with fiery
eyes we ask how it formed and where it lives as if getting more doesn't
mean reestablishing a wound.
It is offered meekly but it is bright and no one can look away once the
sweltering heat touches your face. You sit down, you hold their palm,
you cry into their shoulder as they spread it across your forehead like
it's some kind of fucking ritual. Which maybe it is.. at least at first.
This is how eyes are lit and tacked to a chest. At first we find peace in
the massacres that ride someone's back. We watch the gore with shock
and absorb it as ours in order to know
I own a pulse that is beating
my eyes through the sockets in
my skull.
Nothing but a silent name with a
twitching chest laid out on a stone
slate in a foriegn place. Ignoble but
somehow meant to catch a God's eye?
This land is arid and my body is
too dirty for your cause. The wild
cheers appease his sibilant chants
but my face is forced to watch his
tempestous eyes as a fist plunges
through me.
I am empty.
Watching myself throb in his palm.
This is all futile but how it
riles up a crowd.
You skimmed over your loss while we were in the ocean.
Asked if I was a good swimmer and without waiting
for a reply swam further. I followed breathless,
but confident straddling the ocean with my thighs
smiling as the salt whipped up and licked my face.
I didn't fight it but instead leaned into it.
You said the best you'd ever swam was three miles.
Threw up afterwards. You seemed comfortable here
in the water as I flopped around happily but with
less ability beside you so I didn't question it.
Apparently she died in a car wreck, your brother was
driving drunk. He didn't make it either. You didn't
look at me as you said it but instead swam
Composed, eyes closed. by Blessfullyshocked, literature
Literature
Composed, eyes closed.
Reeling tongues may rip up
sentences instead of
completing them but what
really matters is the
teeth that finish the job.
Steal a temper from a drink
to dissolve a chest that matters.
I am reminded most nights that
you're waking more and more softly.
Breath barely trails its way
out but you get there.
You make it to my mouth which
is what matters most days.
I don't sing your hymns or
swell in the same light but
fighting for it hurts more
than falling for it.
I have sunk my lows and lost
my length to simmer in your eyes.
An ashen figure is dull enough
to scatter yet warm enough to
swallow.
An ashen figure is dull enough
to sc
Miss the things that only appeared
to hold you hostage; they will make
you humble.
Eyes large but aspiring , crawling
from their sockets like livestock to
a food source.
Starve the uglier parts of you
and feed her temper.
I can't keep fighting for a tunnel
refusing to be drug further. I watch
your hungry eyes carve fuller. All
I feel is blood spilling faster and
my heat losing reverence. You treat
it like stagnant bath water.
Eyes glazing over when traveling
lower. Dreams tend to fight the
progress my presence beside you
once held. We are too far to
trim back the plague.
Let it darken your struggling
limbs slipping through the
cracks collecting in the pit
of our bed. Keeping our breath
held too frightened to spare
each other much.
Lips unraveling as you travel
lower. You drill me to my core.
Stop stripping me
unless you plan to fill me.
Ask for softer faces and you'll find teeth
hugging your jugular. Ask for a clamped mouth
hinged on your sinking breath and you'll get
a whimper stretched over your cheeks.
I drew up conversations, buried my knuckles
into the soft tissue of your back, but I never
asked for more than the existence of your reality.
You read my curiosity as a humming heart when it
was simply the distress from the heat of my hips.
More than lashes and hips by Blessfullyshocked, literature
Literature
More than lashes and hips
Is it so ridiculous to reverberate between your skin and their words?
Allow their lips to hover above you hoping their breath will bring forth
relief. Coddle their warm body and remind yourself again and again that
they’re there.
Is this allowed when you’re aware that there is more? More than
their sleeping figure draped in shadows. More than their curious eyes
darting around the room. More than humming words that dress you up in
fitted compliments.
You think I drown in these. My wrists locked together with with ripped
up sheets. My tongue catching the back of my teeth when I try to speak,
the soft tissue leaking red.
Y
In the bloom of my youth a mistaken footstep not
only meant ripping myself away as quickly as possible
(though returning seemed inevitable)
but also chipping off whatever remnants remained.
Cherished items and flawed memories were flushed
or burned. Thoughtful surges were relinquished
as if they were prayers to an expired god.
I was not good at letting go and only drastic
measures seemed to disguise this.
______________________________________________________________
1.) The most forgiving yet risky ledge I've known
left me whimpering and scribbling nonsensical
"I love you's" over and over. I wanted depth but
was too wrecked to expre
Phases of Compassion Pt. 1 by Blessfullyshocked, literature
Literature
Phases of Compassion Pt. 1
It is funny how at our first taste of blood we react with glee. How with fiery
eyes we ask how it formed and where it lives as if getting more doesn't
mean reestablishing a wound.
It is offered meekly but it is bright and no one can look away once the
sweltering heat touches your face. You sit down, you hold their palm,
you cry into their shoulder as they spread it across your forehead like
it's some kind of fucking ritual. Which maybe it is.. at least at first.
This is how eyes are lit and tacked to a chest. At first we find peace in
the massacres that ride someone's back. We watch the gore with shock
and absorb it as ours in order to know
I own a pulse that is beating
my eyes through the sockets in
my skull.
Nothing but a silent name with a
twitching chest laid out on a stone
slate in a foriegn place. Ignoble but
somehow meant to catch a God's eye?
This land is arid and my body is
too dirty for your cause. The wild
cheers appease his sibilant chants
but my face is forced to watch his
tempestous eyes as a fist plunges
through me.
I am empty.
Watching myself throb in his palm.
This is all futile but how it
riles up a crowd.
Composed, eyes closed. by Blessfullyshocked, literature
Literature
Composed, eyes closed.
Reeling tongues may rip up
sentences instead of
completing them but what
really matters is the
teeth that finish the job.
Steal a temper from a drink
to dissolve a chest that matters.
I am reminded most nights that
you're waking more and more softly.
Breath barely trails its way
out but you get there.
You make it to my mouth which
is what matters most days.
I don't sing your hymns or
swell in the same light but
fighting for it hurts more
than falling for it.
I have sunk my lows and lost
my length to simmer in your eyes.
An ashen figure is dull enough
to scatter yet warm enough to
swallow.
An ashen figure is dull enough
to sc
Miss the things that only appeared
to hold you hostage; they will make
you humble.
Eyes large but aspiring , crawling
from their sockets like livestock to
a food source.
Starve the uglier parts of you
and feed her temper.
I can't keep fighting for a tunnel
refusing to be drug further. I watch
your hungry eyes carve fuller. All
I feel is blood spilling faster and
my heat losing reverence. You treat
it like stagnant bath water.
Eyes glazing over when traveling
lower. Dreams tend to fight the
progress my presence beside you
once held. We are too far to
trim back the plague.
Let it darken your struggling
limbs slipping through the
cracks collecting in the pit
of our bed. Keeping our breath
held too frightened to spare
each other much.
Lips unraveling as you travel
lower. You drill me to my core.
Stop stripping me
unless you plan to fill me.
Ask for softer faces and you'll find teeth
hugging your jugular. Ask for a clamped mouth
hinged on your sinking breath and you'll get
a whimper stretched over your cheeks.
I drew up conversations, buried my knuckles
into the soft tissue of your back, but I never
asked for more than the existence of your reality.
You read my curiosity as a humming heart when it
was simply the distress from the heat of my hips.
More than lashes and hips by Blessfullyshocked, literature
Literature
More than lashes and hips
Is it so ridiculous to reverberate between your skin and their words?
Allow their lips to hover above you hoping their breath will bring forth
relief. Coddle their warm body and remind yourself again and again that
they’re there.
Is this allowed when you’re aware that there is more? More than
their sleeping figure draped in shadows. More than their curious eyes
darting around the room. More than humming words that dress you up in
fitted compliments.
You think I drown in these. My wrists locked together with with ripped
up sheets. My tongue catching the back of my teeth when I try to speak,
the soft tissue leaking red.
Y
In the bloom of my youth a mistaken footstep not
only meant ripping myself away as quickly as possible
(though returning seemed inevitable)
but also chipping off whatever remnants remained.
Cherished items and flawed memories were flushed
or burned. Thoughtful surges were relinquished
as if they were prayers to an expired god.
I was not good at letting go and only drastic
measures seemed to disguise this.
______________________________________________________________
1.) The most forgiving yet risky ledge I've known
left me whimpering and scribbling nonsensical
"I love you's" over and over. I wanted depth but
was too wrecked to expre
I have a quick eye that stems from my veins
and we all know where those lead.
You're weak; not just foreign to my past.
I am not swollen in "everlasting embers"
and yet the peak that bridges
by a meager brush remains a crater.
I can't blame you for disappointment
when I welcomed it. Or is it that you
can't disappoint when it is expected?
You are an experience unnecessary
and easy to attain. Your worth lies
in spontaneity and rarity for me.
You are too easily opened, too unsure
of where you stand or who you find
sound in.
Listen to me drop my tone below you.
Watch me pick it back up when it's over.
Excuse me while I hide behind the st
Now I understand
those half-serious faces,
kids in pharaoh death masks
and all the guns in the woods
clunkers on back roads
and tree marks and blood stains
and fully automatic snow.
Now I understand
cracks in the windshields,
shard ballerinas on rooftops and bones.
They dance like mothers
ripe and swelling
with things from eons ago.
This knowledge cuts you
and then the world seeps in
and then the guns in the woods
and fire and life in your head.
Nobody chooses this madness,
it just is and it eats and it sings:
lay your head down ever too slow, and
you'll never sleep alone.
I finally see it
for all that it is:
wild shots at nothing itsel
attic:
the beautifully frondescent room around you pulses with my heartbeat.
it’s colour is shiny and grave. the attic door, it makes me sit here and think
about all those poems i wrote and the difference between the ones seen
and unseen.
i have a list of things to do as long as the hair on small children.
you have to pay attention to all those books you have
you have to trim the wicks before you light the candles
you have to feed your plants because they are dying
you have to sleep less than you do.
just start with gaining trust and going to bed at a decent time. then it'll all be fine.
but this room. oh god, this room.
it's stirring m
the moon imagines these little tear shaped shadows where your collarbone meets your apprehensive neck. prolific slices of remorse slick my body because i know these two or a few things i need won't praise me anymore.
describing things may be my second nature but the flowers blooming from the tops of your cheeks will always come first. this unmovable paper lantern skin of yours lays only under the clothes you keep. but the distance from me to you is enough to need your heavy muscles, organs, body more than fifteen minutes ago.
now think about it, how i thought yesterday i'd be able to love you more complexly than today.
eagres in the evening by nighttimebeautiful, literature
Literature
eagres in the evening
the saddest part about our love is how little you know of my love for the sea.
the salty tastes and rough, brave, water. and the smooth, tiny pieces of washed up wood like around the lakes near home.
the clarity and finesse of the cutting waves, how you can see shadows lurking far out in the deep end,
(if you can stand to look for much longer than a few seconds)
the life under the waves and curling up onto the shore.
how we used to go starfish hunting at four o'clock in the morning before the owners of all the little boutiques would
come along and pick them all up to sell to tourists.
how little you understand about the difference between the
Ask for softer faces and you'll find teeth
hugging your jugular. Ask for a clamped mouth
hinged on your sinking breath and you'll get
a whimper stretched over your cheeks.
I drew up conversations, buried my knuckles
into the soft tissue of your back, but I never
asked for more than the existence of your reality.
You read my curiosity as a humming heart when it
was simply the distress from the heat of my hips.
I am so thankful for the seemingly devastating events that have occurred over the past two months. They have opened my eyes to things and forced me out of my comfort zone which is exactly what I needed. I have done things I never would have done if those events had not transpired and I couldn't be more thrilled.
I visited a beautiful place and a magnificent person.
I got to see an inspiring school with interesting people.
I got to have my skin worshiped and was able to open up.
I just can't explain how happy I am with what has happened.
I am more content with my life and who I am than I have been in a while.
I am ready for what's next a
I have filled my body with temporary pleasure and am feeling the
ache of its absence now. It is haunting and it is curious because
you are never sure of how to push it down. It is a swelling thing
and when it learns of new strongholds in your life it connects
itself to them so it can blossom.
I am already so sick of it and I hope time can dampen its force.
I am attempting to fill myself with nurturing things but so
far it has been futile and hasn't done a lot to help. I suppose
it has made these two days tolerable though. I just hope I will
start feeling better and more myself soon.
Happy Birthday, marvelous Christine!! Thanks for your fabulous and lovely self-portraits! I really hope you can post some more works soon! I miss you too much! You are so adorable!!