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About Literature / Student Member ChessFemale/United Kingdom Recent Activity
Deviant for 3 Years
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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.
Creatively barren and punningly mute –
in the Theatre, a mime act is quick to rebuke.
So I sit and I think, then I scratch and I yawn –
keen for inspiration; the never-here dawn.

On occasion it strikes, but it picks such queer times –
when I’m washing or cooking or peeling a lime
for a strong G&T that I like to believe
shall contain, at the bottom, a literary dream.

I admit, quite a lazy and careless approach
to a hobby that one must always self-coach,
but the pressure! the chasm! the hopeless desire
to write something timeless that ne’er shall expire.

So I sit and I think, then I scratch and I yawn,
and my paper is naked as the day it was born.
Yet I know if I dilly or dally I’ll find
that I’ve lost any hope of a productive mind –

and this poem, this joke that I’ve etched to my page
is my stab at momentum in this hopeless age.
So I hope as I write out these final two lines,
that my work of the day will turn out just fine.
Mottled bridges lunge between estates
married to nuclear two-up two-down lodges;
aesthetic refined to favour function.

Sweatpants dry stale on these smoker balconies;
weeds imitating flowers posturing weakly
as tower blocks, doily-curtained and gawking, fidget
aware of their incongruity.

The gypsies leave horses,  
with mottled coats and shoeless hooves
they graze, matted necks naked on the grass.
Come afternoon, they are petted
by school-children drunk on freedom,
their ties yanked loose
and homework lost.

Tins and plastic supplement bird-food,
our cold, modern algae dead on the lake.
The mirrored high-rise grey jetties jut
tensely grasping fingers for the far-off shore
where no bridges rudely alight;
where the water glows chameleon green;

(and below, in the water, can be seen –
a crumpled Heineken, embraced
by crayon orange, torn edged leaves;
how queer! how intimate!)

The faithful lake assimilates muddying sky;
she burps lichen, hoards algae
to feed her stray, rumpled swans; the wanderers
who thought the greening rust, from a distance
was lusher than their grass.
He whispers to me,
late, drunk on gin and good intent
he whispers to me,
and I am too fucked to care
that this is all we can ever be.

He surprises me
when my mornings dawn
and I find his temporary presence
his impossibility
still at my side
naked in sleep;

my declawed, vulnerable fingertips
nervily biting at my palms,
my lower lip left for him.

I take solace in my own absence,
self-duped, self-doped;
this love-Purgatory self-imposed
as I wait
for a fresh-scrubbed Heaven,
lush with chemical, amnesiac green.
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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