trembling hands kept the gun from my temple. by hedonophobe, literature
Literature
trembling hands kept the gun from my temple.
i have gotten pretty used to being empty.
i feel like a well, most days. just empty,
empty, empty brick with a pool of water
that people think will just keep going -
who ignore the drought. it has not rained
in so, so long. the water, brought back
up, is always murky, but it is still water.
the people make do, expect only this filth,
this dirt, cannot remember - or maybe
tried to forget - that this used to clear.
i am not empty as a hollow tin can is empty;
i am empty as the sea - great swathes of
nothing with only pockets of warmth that
keep anything alive.
it is an ache in the stomach, the throat,
the eyes. it is fluttering l
cursed shield of athena (of aphrodite). by hedonophobe, literature
Literature
cursed shield of athena (of aphrodite).
i am stuck between the two unfortunate
realizations that i am both too much
a feminist and too much a woman.
it is hard to be the ugly girl. always
a bit too much this, always a bit
too few that. always 'maybe if you
smiled more', always 'dress up next
time', always the sideways glance and
sometimes not even that.
my voice is too loud, my edges
too jagged, my words too familiar
and off-putting all at once. too fat for
tight clothes, too short for anything
bigger; too smart and cruel and uncaring
for the boys who pretend to be
sweet just as i am too stupid and naive
and soft for the boys who entertain
themselves with the thought of women.
i have stolen from the rainbow and
taken from the pumpkin seeds
hidden by fallen leaves.
i have given you bee song and
the moment when a hummingbird sits still.
i can snatch and pluck and tug, but my hands
are not magic. i cannot wield it -
cannot turn things into gold.
but i love you.
and maybe, when we kiss,
i can leave glitter behind.
my depression has no mouth and yet it speaks. by hedonophobe, literature
Literature
my depression has no mouth and yet it speaks.
i lay at the wrong side of my bed,
with my palms pressed into my ribs,
and my fingers all clawing at the
valley of my breasts and i have to
wonder if it's all worth it.
i gaze at the twinkling lights i put
up a few months ago and ask them
to watch over my dreams and they
don't respond but i think it's because
they know i don't want to hear them
speak.
they remind me of the stars. the
sky. the ever-turning earth. they
remind me of all those who speak
as if they know the stars well—as if
they had laid among their heat
and cried into their dark matter. i
do not know the stars, only their
names, but i have seen many names
i want to go home, but it's all in my head. by hedonophobe, literature
Literature
i want to go home, but it's all in my head.
i had once dreamt of a city,
filled with sandy air and flashing lights
that blinked as i did, lashes swinging,
and the people only came out at night.
i had been wandering, feet set ablaze,
with bandages that wrapped head to toe—
and i'm still not too sure what happened there,
but i'll try to write what i know.
i saw white smiles and pink hair, people i knew
and some i didn't, with stars for eyes;
i saw them all singing with no beat or rhythm
and two suns, four moons, and ten skies.
i'm uncertain as to what it all means, even though it's been years.
but the thought of returning to that dream city always drives me to tears.
to grow as a seed | to bloom as a weed by hedonophobe, literature
Literature
to grow as a seed | to bloom as a weed
i see so many people talking about depression as a
shrinking sadness, as bonesbloodbile and
stark blue veins peeking in from too short naps—
but what of us who swell? who gain and stretch, who can't help
but keep full and stay full? who feel the tight seams so embedded
into the skin that it might as well be dna?
where are our ribbons and medals? our shining trophies
to be displayed and admired? how else shall we show that we,
too, have suffered and been congratulated on that suffering?
it is so easy to consume. so simple for the body to move, respond,
shovel everything in and let the guilt of it (oh, that sour and
bitter shame)
we real cool (the dead politely disagrees). by hedonophobe, literature
Literature
we real cool (the dead politely disagrees).
part i
there is a kind of eternal mortality
in dying. the waves never break,
the clouds shift along a skyline—
somewhere. the pool players glide
and stretch and never stop - what is
stopping to them but a shovel?
a way to dig up the dry, loose soil
at the top of a hill that overlooks a
cemetery of song; they bury their
sins there, you see. pack them all up,
take that shovel - spray paint it,
call it gold:
lucky number seven.
it gleams a June firefly in the midst
of a June firefight (you only get
the fire, the rest is up to you) and
blood turns a girl into a grin into a
growl in gin, a knife slinking somewhere
silent in her hand. she
the soul is candy floss|my body is rotten. by hedonophobe, literature
Literature
the soul is candy floss|my body is rotten.
the sky is pink, my lips are red, and
everything is double. my shadow
exists on one side and it is my fault—
my side aches and my leg burns
and it is my fault—
i am full but thirsty, swallowing the
bittersweet as i breathe and i asked
for this.
i wanted to ache, to burn, to feel
featherlike -
childlike -
godlike -
a nonbeliever deep in a tomb filled
with the manmade (it is to lay
Venusian, to be pried and gripped,
to forget i am manmade, made/man,
wondering what goes in between
and if it even mattered).
nothing is sense; i must be flame
drunk. count my pores, you’ll find the
stars in them -
check my tongue for the storms
b
there is a beginning here, underneath these ruins. by hedonophobe, literature
Literature
there is a beginning here, underneath these ruins.
depression is a dance of extremes.
you either eat nothing except for the
ash of yourself or you eat everything in
the hopes that you can fill that void -
deep aching pit - not knowing that it
feasts on the marrow of your bones,
that cannibal mouth stretched into a
doctor grin—that is to say, one that says
all is right here.
you either sleep all the time, a semi
coma of thorns, already dead and just
waiting for glazed eyes to finally fall
flat like you wish you would if you could
only wake or you lie awake with ghosts,
their fingers in your hair as they whisper
to the spirits in your brain, your veins,
your shame, shiveri
arms reach from closets and legs drape from beds. by hedonophobe, literature
Literature
arms reach from closets and legs drape from beds.
it's 1 am and i want to cry. it's 1 am and all the other 1 am's
have got nothing on this. nothing on what sinking feels. nothing
on how i can feel my bones like how i feel my muscles -
how they stretch,
catch,
release.
nothing on the way i curve and bow, dancing by myself for myself—
does that make it a selfish thing? most likely. more likely
are the whispers soon to follow, of the moon realizing i am still awake and wanting me to sleep.
on other 1 am's, i think the moon believes she is ugly. i think the sun knows that.
maybe the stars are her freckles, not ours. or
maybe they're just stars.
maybe they
trembling hands kept the gun from my temple. by hedonophobe, literature
Literature
trembling hands kept the gun from my temple.
i have gotten pretty used to being empty.
i feel like a well, most days. just empty,
empty, empty brick with a pool of water
that people think will just keep going -
who ignore the drought. it has not rained
in so, so long. the water, brought back
up, is always murky, but it is still water.
the people make do, expect only this filth,
this dirt, cannot remember - or maybe
tried to forget - that this used to clear.
i am not empty as a hollow tin can is empty;
i am empty as the sea - great swathes of
nothing with only pockets of warmth that
keep anything alive.
it is an ache in the stomach, the throat,
the eyes. it is fluttering l
cursed shield of athena (of aphrodite). by hedonophobe, literature
Literature
cursed shield of athena (of aphrodite).
i am stuck between the two unfortunate
realizations that i am both too much
a feminist and too much a woman.
it is hard to be the ugly girl. always
a bit too much this, always a bit
too few that. always 'maybe if you
smiled more', always 'dress up next
time', always the sideways glance and
sometimes not even that.
my voice is too loud, my edges
too jagged, my words too familiar
and off-putting all at once. too fat for
tight clothes, too short for anything
bigger; too smart and cruel and uncaring
for the boys who pretend to be
sweet just as i am too stupid and naive
and soft for the boys who entertain
themselves with the thought of women.
i have stolen from the rainbow and
taken from the pumpkin seeds
hidden by fallen leaves.
i have given you bee song and
the moment when a hummingbird sits still.
i can snatch and pluck and tug, but my hands
are not magic. i cannot wield it -
cannot turn things into gold.
but i love you.
and maybe, when we kiss,
i can leave glitter behind.
my depression has no mouth and yet it speaks. by hedonophobe, literature
Literature
my depression has no mouth and yet it speaks.
i lay at the wrong side of my bed,
with my palms pressed into my ribs,
and my fingers all clawing at the
valley of my breasts and i have to
wonder if it's all worth it.
i gaze at the twinkling lights i put
up a few months ago and ask them
to watch over my dreams and they
don't respond but i think it's because
they know i don't want to hear them
speak.
they remind me of the stars. the
sky. the ever-turning earth. they
remind me of all those who speak
as if they know the stars well—as if
they had laid among their heat
and cried into their dark matter. i
do not know the stars, only their
names, but i have seen many names
i want to go home, but it's all in my head. by hedonophobe, literature
Literature
i want to go home, but it's all in my head.
i had once dreamt of a city,
filled with sandy air and flashing lights
that blinked as i did, lashes swinging,
and the people only came out at night.
i had been wandering, feet set ablaze,
with bandages that wrapped head to toe—
and i'm still not too sure what happened there,
but i'll try to write what i know.
i saw white smiles and pink hair, people i knew
and some i didn't, with stars for eyes;
i saw them all singing with no beat or rhythm
and two suns, four moons, and ten skies.
i'm uncertain as to what it all means, even though it's been years.
but the thought of returning to that dream city always drives me to tears.
to grow as a seed | to bloom as a weed by hedonophobe, literature
Literature
to grow as a seed | to bloom as a weed
i see so many people talking about depression as a
shrinking sadness, as bonesbloodbile and
stark blue veins peeking in from too short naps—
but what of us who swell? who gain and stretch, who can't help
but keep full and stay full? who feel the tight seams so embedded
into the skin that it might as well be dna?
where are our ribbons and medals? our shining trophies
to be displayed and admired? how else shall we show that we,
too, have suffered and been congratulated on that suffering?
it is so easy to consume. so simple for the body to move, respond,
shovel everything in and let the guilt of it (oh, that sour and
bitter shame)
we real cool (the dead politely disagrees). by hedonophobe, literature
Literature
we real cool (the dead politely disagrees).
part i
there is a kind of eternal mortality
in dying. the waves never break,
the clouds shift along a skyline—
somewhere. the pool players glide
and stretch and never stop - what is
stopping to them but a shovel?
a way to dig up the dry, loose soil
at the top of a hill that overlooks a
cemetery of song; they bury their
sins there, you see. pack them all up,
take that shovel - spray paint it,
call it gold:
lucky number seven.
it gleams a June firefly in the midst
of a June firefight (you only get
the fire, the rest is up to you) and
blood turns a girl into a grin into a
growl in gin, a knife slinking somewhere
silent in her hand. she
the soul is candy floss|my body is rotten. by hedonophobe, literature
Literature
the soul is candy floss|my body is rotten.
the sky is pink, my lips are red, and
everything is double. my shadow
exists on one side and it is my fault—
my side aches and my leg burns
and it is my fault—
i am full but thirsty, swallowing the
bittersweet as i breathe and i asked
for this.
i wanted to ache, to burn, to feel
featherlike -
childlike -
godlike -
a nonbeliever deep in a tomb filled
with the manmade (it is to lay
Venusian, to be pried and gripped,
to forget i am manmade, made/man,
wondering what goes in between
and if it even mattered).
nothing is sense; i must be flame
drunk. count my pores, you’ll find the
stars in them -
check my tongue for the storms
b
there is a beginning here, underneath these ruins. by hedonophobe, literature
Literature
there is a beginning here, underneath these ruins.
depression is a dance of extremes.
you either eat nothing except for the
ash of yourself or you eat everything in
the hopes that you can fill that void -
deep aching pit - not knowing that it
feasts on the marrow of your bones,
that cannibal mouth stretched into a
doctor grin—that is to say, one that says
all is right here.
you either sleep all the time, a semi
coma of thorns, already dead and just
waiting for glazed eyes to finally fall
flat like you wish you would if you could
only wake or you lie awake with ghosts,
their fingers in your hair as they whisper
to the spirits in your brain, your veins,
your shame, shiveri
arms reach from closets and legs drape from beds. by hedonophobe, literature
Literature
arms reach from closets and legs drape from beds.
it's 1 am and i want to cry. it's 1 am and all the other 1 am's
have got nothing on this. nothing on what sinking feels. nothing
on how i can feel my bones like how i feel my muscles -
how they stretch,
catch,
release.
nothing on the way i curve and bow, dancing by myself for myself—
does that make it a selfish thing? most likely. more likely
are the whispers soon to follow, of the moon realizing i am still awake and wanting me to sleep.
on other 1 am's, i think the moon believes she is ugly. i think the sun knows that.
maybe the stars are her freckles, not ours. or
maybe they're just stars.
maybe they