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Sculptures: Rough DraftShe was an artist. She studied contours and color schemes—
found beauty in broken things.
She was a sculptor. She studied proportions and figures
and carved granite as if it were made of water.
When she looked in the mirror she saw marble
and soon she began to chisel away at herself.
Contours became guidelines.
She carved away like children carving Halloween pumpkins—
she pictured reaching inside and grabbing guts and emptying herself.
She rubbed her hands compulsively against the bare skin on her thighs
thinking that maybe she could rub some of the extra rock away if she only tried enough.
Her hands were metal tools and her body was a scrap surface.
Empty rooms were like museum exhibits to her.
She sat on a pedestal waiting for someone to stop and look at her.
She tried so hard to make herself into a work of art—
She was an artist, but she became a sculpture.
Fireflies Don't Leave Burn MarksCertain boys used to press their fingertips into my skin as if they were cigarette butts and I was an ashtray. They stamped out their left over guilt that wouldn’t burn away and grounded it into my skin so that when it rains, I smell smoke and their brand of cologne. I have burn marks on the insides of my palms from when they held my hands with bonfires between theirs. I have scars on the inside of my mouth from where they left their candles burning as if I was a faulty altar. They picked flowers from every garden my body grew and left them at the feet of some makeshift effigy as if they had given me a gift. I have let people ruin me. They burned me to the ground like Rome and called my ashes beautiful ruins.
“I have scars on my hands from touching certain people”. But you told me that you don’t really like Salinger all that much even though you talk like Holden Caulfield. When I think about you, I don’t feel cigarette burns on my skin or smoke being
Winter's HopeMy grandmother told me
that my mother named me “Winter”
because she didn’t really love me.
And when people heard my name they’d shiver
as if snow had been pressed into the skin of their backbone
and they’d taste bitterness and coffee grounds
when they held it in their mouth too long.
So my name become volatile.
It became foreign
and always sounded like “sorry”
when it rolled off of other peoples tongues.
I spent years of my life
My grandmother told me that my mother named me
because nobody loves it either.
But my mother told me
that she named me
Because it translates into
She told me that I held
beginning and ends
within my name and
nurtured life whenever I spoke it;
there are flowers blooming from my taste buds
and vines tangled through the gaps in my teeth.
I am no longer afraid of the sound of my own name.
WeightlessThere are cinder-blocks tied to the corners of my mouth when I smile.
There are a thousand things I’ve never said
pasted to the back of my throat when I speak.
It feels like I have the entire ocean
inside of my stomach
and an anchor inside of my chest.
I’m floating in outer space;
and there is
I have tick marks
clawed into the side of my arms
for every day I have felt this way.
I’m running out of room.
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Lilyas has dedicated herself to making our community a brighter place with her vibrant artwork and infectious enthusiasm for interacting with others in our community. It has certainly paid off, as many deviants flock to her page on a daily basis to let her know how much of an inspiration she is. We absolutely agree, and couldn't let all that hard work go without recognition, so it's with great pride that we bestow the Deviousness Award for March 2014, to ... Read More