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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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In the dead of night, sadly I smoke
mourning a puddled bottle that reflects, in glass
the weak lamps flickering outside; my broken
gin licking the floor. That was my last.
I watch it from my pillows, bed unmade
as odious sobriety confirms unreasoned thoughts,

should I retire, try to sleep, harassed by thoughts?
In filtered cigarettes, I taste false smoke
and thinking clears; in clarity, dismayed
I stand in penance, epicenter of that glass
that bleeds my tonic; my medicine – the last
of my cure for life itself, I broke.

In mind and funds alike, I am self-broke,
so against myself, a war of will I wrought -
to drink what’s left, to sup the last
and let myself to sleep, sweet ashy smoke
floating within the gin slip on the glass –
I myself caught up in frenzies I have made.

The sun staggers through, I crouch dismayed
as it bleeds, observing, through the break
in those curtains I never close. Window glass
rattles accusingly; delirious I thought
it came to judge me; a Jury come to smoke
me out, away! and put an end to this at last –

– yet no. Prone inside my circled shards, the blast
freeze-framed in splinters, gin dried and made
dank stain upon my carpet; ashy ingrained smoke
the only thing remembering the breaking
of last night. My bed disheveled, I ought
to make it; move from my ring of glass.

I greet the day, curtains open, eyes of glass
stare aching at the morning. An end at last;
the sun bleaches away odious thoughts
of that torment that self-imposed I made –
rather than sleep, wait for sunbreak
bathe me in light, or sizzle me to smoke –

I inhale, smoke deep – my feet on glass
I broke as I ran hasty from my thoughts,
those lasting ones, that only pain has made.
Mature Content Filter is On
(Contains: ideologically sensitive material)
I drink aside my Bottle, and I ask
another? Yes, she coos – assenting, then
spin free the lid, and in her depths I bask.
I talk to her, sad things, and she listens
to that I fear to know in sober mind.
It is a compromise; I drain it hollow –
and let another kiss me, keen to find
the answer that I claim I cannot know.

- and in the night, I toss and, sweating, turn
from ghosts I choke on with my acid retch –
I think of Bottle; gagging acid burns
calling she what I imitate, the wretch
vowing this is the last – yet daybreak finds
Bottle and me, closing our guilty blinds.
I slept against his chest,
rocking to the ba dum, thump of his heart.
It is erratic on the monitors,
I am scared to hold his hand, but he reaches
for me, I am reaching out.

I sleep against his chest
naked in imitation of that innocence
stolen like our idealised childhood.
I reach for him, desperately
and I find proof that life goes on,
but why does this matter?

I sit with him,
my other only man reading in the halls.
His skin is flushed,
we tell the nurses this is not fever,
and I wonder when sweat became his norm.

He entertains from his bed,
the hospital gown sagging around the tubes,
the tape ripping his bear chest bare.
He forces his eyelids apart,
and we pray for him to permit sleep.

He sits upright,
he finishes a meal,
he washes himself.
He is reborn into a body sustained by pills,
and we recover ourselves in welcome.
He can only be lost once,
this merely our first dress rehearsal.
I once wrote of weakness,
the submission inherent in my female form
worn like a red rag of surrender.

My hair I cut, my breasts compressed;
and yet, less female does not safety give.
I carry with me scars, fear faded;
I failed to keep my body my own
and wear these marks in remembrance.

In castrated femininity, I swagger as disguise
my hips narrow, no child-bearing lilt.
I lace heavy boots,
chain-smoke loudly, cursing laddishly
and drunkenly say that I am a writer.
I bare my arms, quote Plath as deflection;
and play the role of my dreams,
gin sloshing hollowly in my mug.

Yet I feel my heart beat; kerplunk, kerplunk,
and wish I could be more.
I feel my spine ache, eroding columns;
and pretend I slouch in affectation.

I fear to leap, secure in my façade.
for I would rather believe I would not fall,
and remain unproven, but full of promise.
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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