I didn't cry when my grandmother died, though I cried two weeks later, supposedly about critiques to a manuscript but it was about her I know it was about her And now, four months after the manuscript and my grandmother, I haven't cried since. I'm a crier by nature, by blood. I don't scream, don't shout, don't yell don't curse, it's for someone else and not for me What about when nature fails when the water dries into creek bed when my eyes burn with medication run-off and my throat tastes like shame. At night I count the people I miss, on fingers on hands on feet, on strands of hair and scars and ceiling-stars, count the things unsaid, count the things unshed. During the day I count the cups of tea I drink, the pills I take at night, the miles I run the hours of sun, count the things unsaid,
i I hope you know that I’m sorry For the times I’ve been too much The times I wasn’t enough The moments that blur between Not enough Meghan Too much Meghan I hope you know And I hope you know that it’s not Your fault that I’m hard to talk to I hope you know I hope you know I hope you know But I also hope you know That I miss you. God I miss you God I miss you, miss you and miss The me I was when I wasn’t so heavy I don’t blame you I hope you know. ii I don’t want to be alive But I don’t want to hurt anyone. I’m not living but I’m not hurting anyone. I think my room constricts like a side stitch. One day I won’t be alive one day I won’t hurt anyone. iii The man at the corner of university and 4th looks like him above the mask and he looks at me and I forget where I am or who I am or why I am for a while don’t know how long don’t know how long long long long do know I got on the bus do know I got my phone out of my pocket, I wore shorts, god why did I wear shorts you know
I loved it, it wasn't mine by Synesthi, literature
Literature
I loved it, it wasn't mine
When it happened, when he went to kiss a mouth that didn't want to be kissed, dug nails into skin that boiled under his sweaty, demanding fingertips-- there was a sacred two-or-so weeks when I could have all the screaming I wanted. But my throat was raw and my tongue was bit and I bruised black-blue, heavy fingerprints and nail streaks down pale skin. Some were mine and some were his, defensive wound against offensive memory, but the nerve receptors saw no different, it's all the same when it's sensation, sore and scarred, rough and raw to the touch. And it turns out sometimes you're not ready to scream, I wasn't ready to but god I grew into it, like broken eggshells scattered among pecking, greedy chicks, I grew into a voice. But too late then, the school was made of brick and New-England polish and I didn't have long enough nails to claw past the veneer so I bit down on bitten-down tongue and I swallowed. Swallow, swallow, regurgitate - pieces of a story I didn't write
Heavy and hopeless and
pulse-like, thudding
wide-open windows to
empty streets.
Bike wheels roll and hiss
over dry, warm asphalt,
I've been here a month and I
never should have been here at all.
Nearly one-dozen telehealth therapy calls
in the name of not-getting-worse
because getting better over phone is
a pipe dream, can't smoke with the virus,
it'll eat your damn lungs.
I could leave the door unlocked,
if I wanted to, no one would touch
our doorknob, we could be sick, you know,
we could be sick.
Daily walks or runs outside, a fugitive
stealing fresh air I am not entitled too,
I always knew I was dirty, I always
knew strangers could hu
>>
She breaks them apart
two days into his deployment, tells
me in the kitchen while she eats
and I sit tilted against the counter.
Tells me he loved her too
much. I tell her I know.
She tells me that some people
love you too hard, want
so much in return.
I tell her I know.
Some men will try
to own you. There aren't
words for glad
he didn't or glad
you did before he did it,
before he hit you
She tells me a few days
later, half-drunk on
not-being-owned in the doorway
that he was planning to propose.
She's lightheaded-giggly as she
says she would have said yes,
I tell her I know.
I tell her I'm glad she
won't and she laughs,
says she
When I was young, the Old House in Cottonwood wasn't the Old House because it was the only house. It had belonged to my Nonnie, after her divorce from her first husband, and her two children. It was the house my father visited when his father and Nonnie began their relationship, the house he found boring and small. The Old House, before it was Old, smelled permanently of slight sage and warm rocks. It was high-desert hot or freezing, with no in between.
The New House was built when I was around eight. I woke up in it for the first time when I was around that age, having fallen asleep during the hours-long drive between Phoenix and Cottonwood
Discomfort is familiar, discomfort
is comforting, fingers
wound up in teeth,
brain circling identity like
strangers in a too-small
room
discomfort is this, the feeling
is reaching out between arms
to grab ankles, backwards-
flipping somersaults, didn't your
mother teach you that living
means being in pain?
It should be more than this,
that's what's uncomfortable, that's
what feels spelled out in the space
between words, the world was
not supposed to buck and roll,
marbles upturned on the desk
of someone who does not
pay attention
You were meant to be more
than this and that's what's
so painful, in a universe of stardust
and the
brain like a looping miscalculation by Synesthi, literature
Literature
brain like a looping miscalculation
you
are a pathetic
excuse for a person, aren't
you, the weeds grow
taller and you lie
broken, like a toy
brain like a looping
miscalculation, you're
not sick enough
for help but not well
enough to be
you are a pathetic
mistake, aren't
you, if you could
make it two months then
why come limping at all
systemic malfuctions
and malformations
you are a piece of the
universe, corrupted
there is water damage
in the finer workings
of speech centers,
you are one-half
shock value and one-third
spectacle
the rest lies undefined
vitamins
in bottles and pathetic
remains, if you were
worth loving once then you
have forgotten it
retrograde amnesia p
Lifelong insomnia means sleep when you can, means sleep when you do. Means falling asleep with your shoes on and your head at the wrong foot of the bed, arms and legs falling off the edge because you sat down for a second and it hit. Means fifteen hours of sleep in ten days and then 21 hours straight, clumsy light through bedroom windows.
Binge sleep. The body takes what it will. When it rains, it pours. Wake up feeling groggy and half dead, have to hold onto the side of the counter when you use the toilet. Dry mouth. Choking down a dose of medication because you missed the last dose, you slept through it. Staring at the sky trying to figure
I didn't cry when my grandmother died, though I cried two weeks later, supposedly about critiques to a manuscript but it was about her I know it was about her And now, four months after the manuscript and my grandmother, I haven't cried since. I'm a crier by nature, by blood. I don't scream, don't shout, don't yell don't curse, it's for someone else and not for me What about when nature fails when the water dries into creek bed when my eyes burn with medication run-off and my throat tastes like shame. At night I count the people I miss, on fingers on hands on feet, on strands of hair and scars and ceiling-stars, count the things unsaid, count the things unshed. During the day I count the cups of tea I drink, the pills I take at night, the miles I run the hours of sun, count the things unsaid,
i I hope you know that I’m sorry For the times I’ve been too much The times I wasn’t enough The moments that blur between Not enough Meghan Too much Meghan I hope you know And I hope you know that it’s not Your fault that I’m hard to talk to I hope you know I hope you know I hope you know But I also hope you know That I miss you. God I miss you God I miss you, miss you and miss The me I was when I wasn’t so heavy I don’t blame you I hope you know. ii I don’t want to be alive But I don’t want to hurt anyone. I’m not living but I’m not hurting anyone. I think my room constricts like a side stitch. One day I won’t be alive one day I won’t hurt anyone. iii The man at the corner of university and 4th looks like him above the mask and he looks at me and I forget where I am or who I am or why I am for a while don’t know how long don’t know how long long long long do know I got on the bus do know I got my phone out of my pocket, I wore shorts, god why did I wear shorts you know
I loved it, it wasn't mine by Synesthi, literature
Literature
I loved it, it wasn't mine
When it happened, when he went to kiss a mouth that didn't want to be kissed, dug nails into skin that boiled under his sweaty, demanding fingertips-- there was a sacred two-or-so weeks when I could have all the screaming I wanted. But my throat was raw and my tongue was bit and I bruised black-blue, heavy fingerprints and nail streaks down pale skin. Some were mine and some were his, defensive wound against offensive memory, but the nerve receptors saw no different, it's all the same when it's sensation, sore and scarred, rough and raw to the touch. And it turns out sometimes you're not ready to scream, I wasn't ready to but god I grew into it, like broken eggshells scattered among pecking, greedy chicks, I grew into a voice. But too late then, the school was made of brick and New-England polish and I didn't have long enough nails to claw past the veneer so I bit down on bitten-down tongue and I swallowed. Swallow, swallow, regurgitate - pieces of a story I didn't write
Heavy and hopeless and
pulse-like, thudding
wide-open windows to
empty streets.
Bike wheels roll and hiss
over dry, warm asphalt,
I've been here a month and I
never should have been here at all.
Nearly one-dozen telehealth therapy calls
in the name of not-getting-worse
because getting better over phone is
a pipe dream, can't smoke with the virus,
it'll eat your damn lungs.
I could leave the door unlocked,
if I wanted to, no one would touch
our doorknob, we could be sick, you know,
we could be sick.
Daily walks or runs outside, a fugitive
stealing fresh air I am not entitled too,
I always knew I was dirty, I always
knew strangers could hu
>>
She breaks them apart
two days into his deployment, tells
me in the kitchen while she eats
and I sit tilted against the counter.
Tells me he loved her too
much. I tell her I know.
She tells me that some people
love you too hard, want
so much in return.
I tell her I know.
Some men will try
to own you. There aren't
words for glad
he didn't or glad
you did before he did it,
before he hit you
She tells me a few days
later, half-drunk on
not-being-owned in the doorway
that he was planning to propose.
She's lightheaded-giggly as she
says she would have said yes,
I tell her I know.
I tell her I'm glad she
won't and she laughs,
says she
When I was young, the Old House in Cottonwood wasn't the Old House because it was the only house. It had belonged to my Nonnie, after her divorce from her first husband, and her two children. It was the house my father visited when his father and Nonnie began their relationship, the house he found boring and small. The Old House, before it was Old, smelled permanently of slight sage and warm rocks. It was high-desert hot or freezing, with no in between.
The New House was built when I was around eight. I woke up in it for the first time when I was around that age, having fallen asleep during the hours-long drive between Phoenix and Cottonwood
Discomfort is familiar, discomfort
is comforting, fingers
wound up in teeth,
brain circling identity like
strangers in a too-small
room
discomfort is this, the feeling
is reaching out between arms
to grab ankles, backwards-
flipping somersaults, didn't your
mother teach you that living
means being in pain?
It should be more than this,
that's what's uncomfortable, that's
what feels spelled out in the space
between words, the world was
not supposed to buck and roll,
marbles upturned on the desk
of someone who does not
pay attention
You were meant to be more
than this and that's what's
so painful, in a universe of stardust
and the
brain like a looping miscalculation by Synesthi, literature
Literature
brain like a looping miscalculation
you
are a pathetic
excuse for a person, aren't
you, the weeds grow
taller and you lie
broken, like a toy
brain like a looping
miscalculation, you're
not sick enough
for help but not well
enough to be
you are a pathetic
mistake, aren't
you, if you could
make it two months then
why come limping at all
systemic malfuctions
and malformations
you are a piece of the
universe, corrupted
there is water damage
in the finer workings
of speech centers,
you are one-half
shock value and one-third
spectacle
the rest lies undefined
vitamins
in bottles and pathetic
remains, if you were
worth loving once then you
have forgotten it
retrograde amnesia p
Lifelong insomnia means sleep when you can, means sleep when you do. Means falling asleep with your shoes on and your head at the wrong foot of the bed, arms and legs falling off the edge because you sat down for a second and it hit. Means fifteen hours of sleep in ten days and then 21 hours straight, clumsy light through bedroom windows.
Binge sleep. The body takes what it will. When it rains, it pours. Wake up feeling groggy and half dead, have to hold onto the side of the counter when you use the toilet. Dry mouth. Choking down a dose of medication because you missed the last dose, you slept through it. Staring at the sky trying to figure
the sand paints a cleft into my back
and the sky can tell i am not listening.
i wish
i could be anywhere else.
i wish
i could be underwater.
the amber horizon loosens itself,
the daylight is approaching,
i am no nearer to where i needed to be
than i was when the night came,
i am no nearer to where i needed to be
but there is something stirring in the cavity
of my chest, a cancer perhaps
or maybe just a call to arms.
the madness is coming.
small cells bewilder at its approach.
the blood beats itself into my fingers.
the body hums and runs.
i am not new to it.
the madness, not the body.
i am very new to the body.
i have swallowed the chaos be
Depression (in Eight Parts) by tinkertype, literature
Literature
Depression (in Eight Parts)
I.
I took a walk once, and
Depression walked alongside me.
"I want to be alone," I told him.
"I know," he replied,
"Why do you think I'm here?"
II.
"I have a plan,"
Depression said to me.
"Not today," I said.
"I'm tired."
He frowned and asked,
"How did you know my plan?"
III.
I gave the weekend over to Depression
but he took three days
instead of two.
"Think of it as an investment," he said.
"And maybe I'll let you have a Friday night
without regrets."
IV.
Fallen to the floor
I look up and see
he's smiling at me.
"You know what they say
about old dogs."
He's doing this on purpose,
I know he is-
and it's working.
"They can't l
120 Seconds - Results!! by BurdenedHearts, journal
120 Seconds - Results!!
Winners
and the results are finally in! Thanks to everyone who entered this competition was hard work to run and judge but totally worth it to hear people talking passionately about things they care about! The winners are...
In the GLOBAL category...
FIRST PLACE
Synesthi (https://www.deviantart.com/synesthi)'s speech
:thumb427855980:
SECOND PLACE
Pepper-the-phoenix (https://www.deviantart.com/pepper-the-phoenix)'s speech
:thumb430829141:
THIRD PLACE
DamonWakes (https://www.deviantart.com/damonwakes)' speech
:thumb430637761:
HONOURABLE MENTIONS
(no prize)
camelopardalisinblue (https://www.deviantart.com/camelopardalisinblue)'s speech
:thumb427651849:
91816119 (https://www.deviantart.com/91816119)'s speech
:thumb429728526:
Beyond-An-Anomaly (https://www.deviantart.com/beyond-an-anomaly)'s speech
:thumb430274564:
In the PERSONAL category...
FIRST PLACE
Sammur-amat (https://www.deviantart.com/sammur-amat)'s speech
:thu
Words like wings by GentlemanAnachronism, literature
Literature
Words like wings
I caught a bird, the other day. Opened my window, leaned out, and there it was, right in front of me. Almost like it wanted to be grabbed. Strange little thing, all bones and breath and that frightened heartbeat thudding against my fingers - and warm, warm as blood.
I cradled it in my hands and, fingers cupped tight around it, pulled my arms back in and tugged the window closed with my elbow. Not locked, mind you - just closed enough it wouldn't fly away the moment I let it go. Not before I'd had a chance to look at it, anyway.
I sat down, back against the wall. Opened my hands.
The bird stood there, balanced on the platform of my overlapp
I'm not going to lie,
Last night I got lost in a room.
I'm not going to lie,
I left and I won't be back soon.
My mind went too far,
and the walls went too close.
Sorry, I just had to go.
This floor is too hard
and my voice has dried up,
I can't give you what I don't know.
I'm not going to lie,
I miss hearing me speak.
I'm not going to lie,
I'm sorry you damned up my creek.
But the words are gone,
shut in boxes and sent away.
No one would listen, they dried up,
what else was I going to say?
I'm not going to lie,
last night I got lost in a room.
I'm not going to lie,
because I'm not coming anytime soon.
It's too cold to breathe,
but t
Undiscovered Gems (20) by betwixtthepages, journal
Undiscovered Gems (20)
Yes, I've gone and done it again! As if I'm not busy enough with A Call to Conversation anddA Roadtrip articles, I'm bringing you ANOTHER one! With the launch of the "Undiscovered" browsing option, there are a TON of awesome artworks I've been finding and admiring, and I just have to share them with you guys.
I WILL be taking suggestions for this series, as well, so if you discover something while browsing the bowels of dA that you think needs to be shared, please send me ( =TwilightPoetess ) a note titled Undiscovered Gems.
-----
Undiscovered Gems (20)
with suggestions from LionesseRampant (https://www.deviantart.com/lionesserampant)
today's theme: emotions
-----
I hope you fo
“I want to be interred after I die,” Mr. Peters said. He made that clear to his family while he was still lucid, before old age and illness rendered him unintelligible. Seventy wasn’t that old, but he recognized the symptoms that were creeping up on his ailing body – the aches, the fatigue, the feeling of helplessness and despair. Despite his daughter’s attempts to assuage his concerns, he sensed his own mortality.
The worst part about dying, Mr. Peters thought, was what happened afterwards. Even since he was a small boy, he had been afraid of fire. He could never forget the scorching heat of the orange fla
crawl backwards, die slowly by Synesthi, literature
Literature
crawl backwards, die slowly
It hurts but that's okay.
One finger under the receiver and two behind
the battery pack and it hurts coming out
but thank you, it's over,
thank you.
Conscious and active effort to untie
bound muscles in neck in shoulders
in chest, did you know you
tense the muscles at your sternum
to hear the low sounds
did you know
And the pain's not over, it won't
be but they're out, they're out.
In your hands they look like
nothing, pull out the battery
so it doesn't drain and
put them in the case.
You will never be worth as much
as you were before you broke.
It takes a few seconds longer
to put them away than it should,
staring at the case
I hate
I am a Synesthete (the term for someone who has synesthesia) and enjoy writing (prose and poetry), long-distance running, and playing music. My username is another (less formal) term for someone with synesthesia.
Favourite Books
The Book Thief, London Calling, The Lord of the Rings, Jane Eyre, Wuthering Heights, Pride and Prejudice, Sense and Sensability
Favourite Writers
Jane Austin, Emily Bronte, Charlotte Bronte, Markus Zusak, Edgar Allen Poe
I don't really think I belong here anymore. So much changed. The people I knew are gone and I don't feel like I produce much worth saying.
But I miss it in a weird way that's hard to fully explain, so I stop in from time to time. Occasionally I have something I still want to put down.
So if you're seeing this, hi <3 Take care out there.
I have a lot of regrets.
But I also have a lot of wishes, a lot of times I wish other people had said things, done things differently. But you can't regret on the behalf of another, not without presupposing a few things, so I call them wishes.
They stack up in me like dominos waiting to fall and take me with them. I've waited for them to fall and edged around them and held my breath. The end is coming with the inevitable entropy of the universe but why hasten destruction.
But that's stupid. Let it fall. Give up, watch them tumble.
Nothing I do matters. The best thing I can do is to not do anything. I'm going to have a lot of regrets forev
Previous journal entry had been up long enough, so here's a refresher.
I am:
a grad student in her early twenties who is actively pursuing research surrounding sign languagea Deaf person (with the 'D' indicating cultural ties, significance, and a feeling of pride surrounding my identity)a seven-time finisher of NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month), as of November 2017 ('Wall Talk').a synesthete (grapheme, OLP, and some chromesthesia sound -> color, but the hearing loss really doesn't work with me there). I've participated in a couple studies on synesthesia, including the MPI genetics study in fall 2014a runner (focusing on long dista
We're happy to have you aboard! If you have any questions, comments, or suggestions, please the group and your friendly neighborhood admins will get back to you ASAP.