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About Literature / Student Premium Member ChessFemale/United Kingdom Recent Activity
Deviant for 3 Years
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Given by an Anonymous Deviant
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Mature Content Filter is On
(Contains: ideologically sensitive material)
I live with this cruel thing
that whispers to me, inaudibly;
this darkly gutteral gravity
snagging, latching onto me
in those last half-conscious moments
in these empty beds I disown,
learning new, strange creases
in adulterous bleached pillows; rusty quilts
that, nightly, swallow my single strung out arm.
I chose this. Then this chose me.

It nags loudly; tell me you hear it!
- possessing my words in that old voice
I had thought stolen from me
in my lost bedlam, those padded walls.
This voice I drown in
clear burnt liquid, razored inhales
in control I seize by duplicitous submission:

I hear it. I hear it -
then I hear myself naming my demon,
speaking in my owned words.
Mature Content Filter is On
(Contains: sexual themes)
Even the light is chemical on my skin. It burns me rouged; I move like I am on fire. Bodies around me, they are the music; we are the music; I throb to our bassline and dare not open my eyes. I have never seen this clearly.
The ashtray. Reefer reek, bleeding lipstick prostrate and ravished; haloed in ash. I chain, I breathe smoke: I am furnace; I am dragon.
I clutch at nothing and my hands grasp longing, vacant air instead. She is far away, her breath upon my collarbones. I offer them to her. I am rushing, I am rolling; I am the other side of human: emotion. I am the right way out at last; my heart pounding into the atmosphere, my veins tasting oxygen fresh from the nicotine smog. I am here. I am real. I close my eyes to look outwards, and I feel her as I fear her. I still burn.
She unwraps herself. I sway, a painted slash of tensed limbs and black cotton in her mirrors. My eyes are open doors; it is dark outside. She unwraps, she unveils and my knees are bruised in my ardour. She tastes like the gullet drip that still writhes through me; she wipes her clean from his cheekbones and with this intimacy, I lose myself yet again.
Water; cuts through stone, quenches thirst. I drown, lips open and gasping as his mouth parts soundlessly on my neck. I can only hear his touch. The water rustles around us; skin is watertight. I press harder. I am swollen in rapture as the dawn slides fingers down the window. I am falling.
We close the blinds and then I surrender; for once I do not dream, I only feel. His jaw scratches moans free from me and before my sobering metabolism returns me outside in, I find myself tattooed. Regret is never an emotion rooted in the present. Only the past.
Mature Content Filter is On
(Contains: ideologically sensitive material)
I want your mouth around my nipple,
the pierced one - yes, right there.
Bite me, don't tease me.

I want your tongue on my scars,
I want them wet again.
They are deadened nerve and I can hardly feel
you, anyway; you're always there when I choose.

I want your touch, unmistakably you -
I never felt a kiss this smooth
this consistently cold. You left me scarred
and I think of your touch often,

I have never needed something more.
I keep you encased in white boxes,
in silver cages.

I will not let you take over me,
but there you are - again and again;
I cannot forget you,
and I sometimes entertain the thought, should I?
Would I let you out?
"You haven't found your voice yet," he observes
about a poem from my teenage years
I wrote before I knew him.
He tosses it aside, like so
and then approaches, as I see it flutter down
it lands, ungainly crumpled. He engulfs me,

holds me tightly, presses through me;
I hold my gaze in our reflection, his back turned -
just me and me: then I blink first.
He lets me go. I breathe.

We drink spirits heavy, blur with hash
then, ashing in a crumpled can,
companionably, we slip away -
I am squeezed breathless in my clumsy form,
and I stumble, drunken, get away.
I take responsibility:
in these blurry wakenings, eyes squinting open
lace-shattered glare, the summer's coming.

I take responsibility:
chuck codeine down my angry alkie gut

I made myself these morning lessons,
unwrap them daily with new black-out bruises
as cruel sentience tucks me in, possessed:
I, for this as well, take responsibility.

I take it, then I drown it:
and awakening, accept it. Until later,
when I take my cure, as self prescribed
and all the while, taking responsibility.
as hell.


chesscakes's Profile Picture
Artist | Student | Literature
United Kingdom
"My thoughts are messy, my emotions are messy, my body goes in and out at will. The raised white scars on my arms and legs are the only aspect of my being that comes close to minimalism. They came from chaos, but it is hard to carve frustration and unease into the flesh. Only straight lines." - Emma Forrest. This is why I write.


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MrFabulousFox Featured By Owner Jun 30, 2014  Student General Artist
Sargeant-Knoxx Featured By Owner May 9, 2014  Hobbyist Digital Artist
Incredible literature. :D Love it!
rainylainy Featured By Owner Nov 20, 2013
Love all your work. New to this so hopefully will have the time to put up my short stories in time. If you have a moment listen to world at large by modest mouse. Poetry in music. I feel by your writing you may like this song, if not already heard it :) Keep writing x
0hgravity Featured By Owner Aug 13, 2013  Hobbyist General Artist
thank you for the fav ^^
chesscakes Featured By Owner Aug 16, 2013  Student Writer
No problem, loved your work. x
0hgravity Featured By Owner Aug 19, 2013  Hobbyist General Artist
^^; glad you did.
schriftsteller Featured By Owner Feb 21, 2013   Writer
I just wanted to say that Thin Skin was the book I turned to with every error in my life, every new scar and heartbreak, every mistake I made. I have loved the lines from your deviantID for as long as I can remember. I haven't actually met anyone else who knows about Emma Forrest so I was both shocked and delighted to see her up there. Also, congrats on your DD-- it was lovely. :)
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