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L'appel de la Mer I am 17 the first time I see him. I am spending the summer with my dad in San Diego, a tradition I can't remember actually starting. My days are mostly work and seeing summer friends, but every night, I run down to the beach after hours to listen to the ocean. I love it because it's always empty, the tourists all comfortably in their hotel rooms and the local teenagers gone home to smoke weed and pop pills they stole from their too-busy-to-notice parents.
I hate running, but I make it a point to run every night. I'm not trying to run away from the past or anything so metaphorical, I just do it because I'm restless. I always have been. Dad says I get it from him, and that his restlessness is why he had to leave my mom and move to California. Maybe that's why I'm not bitter about the divorce; I understand his need to leave because I've been trying to get away too.
I'm so immersed in psychoanalyzing myself that I get to my favorite stretch of beac
sa'hibi in five parts.i. there are a thousand truths i never told:
i am incapable of happiness,
in the tenth grade i had an eating disorder,
and six years ago i fell in love all wrong.
i got over it,
i've done better since.)
i imagine branding
a thousand tiny secrets on
a thousand paper sailboats
and setting myself free.
i am ready.
ii. you came in faster
than i could keep control of.
you midnight whispered
in three languages
and there was that one time you
laid on a dirty, empty dc street
just to kiss me.
i remember you
for when i turned away in my sleep
and you kissed the back of my neck.
i remember you
the way your scruff tickled
the parts of me i hid away,
and all of the times
but loved me anyway.
i could have watched you play piano forever.
iii. you left just as fast,
before i ever had a chance to pull you back.
i suppose it had to be this way.
i realized today that
the only thing i have of yours
is your virginity.
iv. the truth is
written, stamped, but i never sent the letters.i don't remember
why we stopped talking,
what that last fight was about,
(it was probably my fault)
and i'm sorry about your mom
and the sickness
and i'm so sorry
that i can't fix you.
in my mind
you are still 17,
in your kmart red polo,
laughing way too hard
at some stupid joke
you made yourself.
you are unhardened
by the colorado mountains
and let go of.
what i mean to say is
i miss you,
but the words
never come out right
and i am too afraid
to do anything about it
so i won't.
won't you save me, san francisco?i have always said
there are only two things
that can fix me:
a good book and
some people have God,
i believe in route 66.
i believe in
and circle, alaska.
and why stop there?
i believe in
and everywhere in between.
i am restless because
i have never found anything
worth staying for.
saudade.there is no such thing as a good day anymore.
there are bad days
and there is numbness.
some days there is
toska saudade empty.
some days the bills go unpaid.
some days they make me eat but
it's okay, i just throw it all up later
like some sort of
some days the sky is blue,
sometimes i can't tell.
sometimes i just can't tell, okay?
i don't have all the fucking answers.
i dream about
and it doesn't hurt so bad anymore.
sometimes it's just
november starry.her nana calls her "raater-mey,"
(maiden of the night.)
he can barely stay awake long enough to
talk to the doctors that come by weekly,
but he weaves her hair into braids with his weathered hands
every day, and he tucks her into bed with secrets and
"tomaar moton keo nai, amar kolija."
she repays him in popsicle stick birdhouses,
hand drawn flowers, and shy smiles meant for no one else.
she doesn't understand why everyone stops
talking when she walks into the room, or why her
ammu cries in the middle of the night.
all she knows is that her old nana
has always been there, will always be there
to braid her hair and tell her stories of
what it was like before bangladesh was called
she writes him a poem
about starry november nights on the
sloping tin roof and all the places she
will take him when she is grown up,
all the t
esperanza-i. you catch her eye on your first day working at the local movie theater
and you fall for her immediately, without even realizing-
for the subtle catch of her shirt on her hips,
for the way she tucks her hair away while talking,
for her eyes like the ocean and her laugh like windchimes.
ii. you teach yourself to belong to her.
you wear her favorite color on her birthday
and you play with your hair the way she likes,
even on those days you don't see her.
you draw rocketships on your spanish notes
and learn to love edgar allen poe and
you call her
i was a child and she was a child,
in this kingdom by the sea;
but we loved with a love that was more than love-
i and my annabel lee.
you miss her when she's around
and tell her you will never stop loving her.
you believe in her future.
you forgive her for showing up to dinner half an hour late
and for breaking the strings on your favorite guitar.
iii. and then one day, she stops
kissing back and wanti
and i let him."do you still know all the constellations by heart?" he asks.
"of course." i point to a spot over his head, "see that really bright one over there by the line of three? that's apollo, the sun god. and that little one next to him is cassandra; she's my favorite."
i look at him. "i told you the story of cassandra, didn't i?"
"yeah," he allows, "but i like hearing you tell it."
i turn back to the sky, fixing my gaze on the little star and dropping my voice. "cassandra was a mortal. a princess, actually- daughter of king priam, and she was gorgeous. she was so beautiful that apollo fell in love with her. being a god, he gave her the gift of prophecy. eventually though, cassandra fell in love with a mortal man. he was handsome and loyal and he loved her, too. they were happy together, but apollo was jealous, so he put a curse of her. she would still be able to see the future, but no one would ever believe her. cassandra saw the destruction of troy, but they called her a liar. it ruin
listen:you ever think about that night
you tried to kill yourself?
does it ever scare
you how much has changed?
do you care?
listen: it's like this.
it's like the way he never just says he loves you.
it's like his left shoulder blade is your favorite place in the world.
it's like celebrating christmas a day late just because you're both jewish.
it's like stretching in bed and "good morning, scruffy."
it's like the way he has to tilt his head down to kiss you
and using late nights as currency and he makes you believe in god,
even if he doesn't.
it's like he needed you
and you can be sorry all your goddamn life but
all you've got now is a sinking feeling,
a letter, and three years worth of memories.
postscript: i have never been more sorry.
Stop putting words in my mouthYou shove your fingers
down my throat,
and insert words
I never spoke,
in desperate hopes
to make me choke
my pearly gates
that feeds me
swallow the universedecay remembers you --
fever breath and ocean-eyed ghosts,
secrets that smoke with poison desire.
we wake only to drink, to devour
the naked voices of dismantled stars.
glass kisses turn into granite lips
and pillars of salt; a haunted embrace
melts into the cracks of the universe.
Love is not blindLove is not blind. It can see clearly.
It looks past the boundaries.
It defies the judging stares of society.
It is a force to be reckoned with.
eight.sometimes i feel
life's been played like a puppet
on a tangled
[yet still i'm lifeless without you .]
eidolon longingbreath salts open rooms
that entomb my idle hants.
in gloomy aberrance.
when the pulse was flaunted
remain the pursuit
of lanterns haunted.
questions flung like
furtive surface glances
ghost through iris eyelines
with an epiphany;
this search sparked
full body shudderings.
shuttering every window
and portal alike,
a light threatened by
the tending toward pulsatory spikes.
aorta, i spied you
spidering open your eyes
sliding the pursuit of dawn
through your dim sight.
with the sun, beat,
you forge forward for
warded window panes,
a rhythmic wonder repeat.
but eyelids live locked,
a careless cage holding
in this socket shock.
tock and tick that slick swindle options;
your image a lit blossom in a bottomless pit.
i’m reaching, but god, this
isn’t possible when
you’re this obstinate;
i am a fossil you’ve discarded
with hardly a sniff.
snuff me out, i’ll sputter devout and wish
my cardiac espousal had been more
seven.my nights for the last weeks have
consisted of liquid
poison, smoke in
and the chilled sound of
wake up with my
head half off the sidewalk,
surrounded by shards of
and a faint touch of
[ill pick myself back up on my own two
feet.. and stumble back;
she had come seeking a riotshe found religion in silence.
there wasn't a prophet's bone
in her body, not a holy cell of skin, but
somehow she was something
to believe in. she called herself a woman, not an angel nor
madonna, and the crucifix on her tongue could
not make her hold her words.
they called her witch and called her
goddess, made of something
such as marble, but she said she wasn't one
to be revered -
icons made of glass were
made to break, she claimed she was not
born to die;
(silence is found in the loudest of tongues, for speaking is an art
not all have learned-)
kitestrings and catastrophes.i've figured myself out-
i am a catastrophe at best and at worst
i am yours.
you once told me i was a disaster
just waiting to happen. i would like to be
a hurricane or maybe a thunderstorm.
i would like to be so many things,
(mostly happy and yours.)
you never really liked thunderstorms
and hurricanes wreck lives.
maybe i wasn't so wrong about that one.
"do you believe in magic?"
i believe in miracles and meteorites.
i believe in you and me
and insignificance and disasters.
i believe in paper cranes and kitestrings
and maybe we're not right
but what's so wrong with trying?
fairytales are for princesses;
catastrophes don't get happy endings.
Life is but a DreamWe are just unnourished frail bodies,
overfed with white lies and short-lived-euphorias.
Books filled with black letters,
etching lurid images into our utmost dreams.
Veering us from the big picture...
the one we fail to paint ourselves.
Our fists much too busy with fights,
that we are bound to lose.
Too occupied in line waiting,
for creativity to be let loose like a stray dog.
As if we will find home in this pursuit of happiness...
but we only enclose each other in small rooms
with nothing but old laptops.
How many times I've guessed which letter could it be...
Which letter could it be?
To free us from havoc-stricken-thoughts?
They come and go, unending like 24 hour subway stations.
There's no break for this lonely man,
heaving every breathe of stale air
into my overused lungs...
Living in confined walls of flesh
held up with brittle paper-mache bones.
Which day is it that I will burst out from this cage of a life?
And hover with the Gods found in carefully binded bo
Blood BrothersBrookie always holds my hand when we cross the street. She's never given a reason for it, she just does it. It's become this unspoken rule with us that whenever we cross the street together, she slips her hand in mine and I lace my fingers through hers and we walk hand-in-hand until we reach the other side and she drops her hand and we both wipe our palms on our jeans. Brookie's a little scared of crossing the street. Her poppa died in a car crash when we were six. He was a pedestrian. She's never gotten over it.
Brookie is my best friend going on sixteen years now, which is pretty impressive considering we're both sixteen. We don't have some cute little story about how we were born in the same hospital on the same day or about how our mothers were best friends long before they were pregnant with us and somehow passed on that bond while we were still in utero. No, Brookie and I met the same way ever
MercyOh sweet God how the grassland
ignites in moonlight tonight
I must thank you for creating
her tangled fingers' slow pace
through the handsome rain Her
trochaic kinesthesia to rhythms
in Stravinsky's The Rite of
Spring Is this how you meant
for us to love you Yahweh
Tumbling clumsily down hills
of sheets into perpetually
immutable silence I could love
you like that I think I've been
practicing on this Savanna
for days and months Lost in
her crystal canvas Rolling crests
and troughs And when she touches
me Oh fair Lord I'm dragged into
your city past Gethsemane's
pulsing green and gold
Please hold us together
under this luminous stretch
Oh Father We are live
unclothed Our reflections awash
with the skin of your sun
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A two-time Community Volunteer for the deviantART Related category, Anne is well-known as a positive, helpful force. She is the community's resident expert when it comes to CSS (Cascading Style Sheets), and her personal gallery offers a wide variety of tutorials for new and experienced coders alike. In addition, each winter she hosts a calendar project encouraging members to create Journal designs for all to use, bringing more creativity to the community.
It is with immense gratitude that we acknowledge Anne as the recipient of the Deviousness Award for October 2014. Read More