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About Literature / Hobbyist LauraFemale/United States Group :iconcelsiantales: CelsianTales
 
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When I feel them, your
fingertips, they're explosions on my skin,
more potent than words.

The ridges of your fingerprints are like
foreign topography. Let me
learn this map with the skin
of my chest, my shoulders, my
hands.

And when you leave, tired
of me, or more probably just tired,
we'll go back to the space
that feels too much like home.
The space--distance between us
where we rotate like dead
planets around a black hole.

When you come back, we can blame
it on the chaotic gravity, a subtle
breakdown of physics.

No words, only catastrophic collisions.
continuing their revolution, orbiting
"they fall apart and fall back together, each and every time, leaning on familiarity and continuing their revolution, orbiting until the next inevitable collision. each time they learn more, and each time they speak volumes without saying words—an entire star chart packing into a single touch." Em aka Kazuyas


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When I dream (and I always
dream of you;
though that is for another time) I see
the shape of the edge of
your hand, curled against your chest
like a half dried leaf.

My lips mouth fears against
the crook of your neck, muttering in mad
repetitions until you shiver
in your sleep.

[I’ll never be good enough,
I say,
you’ll wake up in the morning and never come back]

But even sleeping soundly within
my head, (your voice is like far-off church bells,
ringing my quiet salvation), you tell
me your fears, too.

[it is nothing,
you say,
there is nothing worthy of fear]
messages: heard in a dream
wrote this for a fandom thing, of course, like everything lately. 
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It’s never violent when
you hit me. Your fists press bruises into my chest
and I clasp my hands around your neck
like I’m praying--
but I’m praying to you.

And I don’t have to ask you,
when the sun slides heavy through the window
shades, lighting dust like glitter in the air,
you roll against me.

I hold you in my fingers like an ocean pearl
and I may just drown to grab you.

When I wake up and lick
my blood from your knuckles
and you whisper an apology against my chest,
that is something violent.

It’s better that you stay with me broken than leave me whole.
Violent Mornings
more problematic aesthetic for ur day
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The first time is a lot like the last time, and when you see her walk in, all pomp and swagger and a smile that could kill stronger women than you, you tell yourself you’ll be fine as long as you walk away now.

You don’t.

She doesn’t speak to you, not at first, but you dream of her like you’ve never dreamed of home, dream up the way that her mouth could feel on your throat, and the noises she could sing for you.

The second time you see her she ends up spread open in front of you. You’re never sure how it happens but her body looks like it wants you and the way you fit together feels catastrophic. She smiles at you, at you like she’s never done, and something clicks, like a lock on a door– a bullet in a chamber.

You tell yourself the first time will be the last time, and when you voice the idea she laughs like it’s a joke. She feels like a trap, the bones of her ribs could cage you like they shield her own beating heart, and you step eagerly inside. Somehow when her teeth graze your neck like the blade of a knife you lose all sense of self preservation.

When you ask her to go and she kisses you hard on the mouth you both end up laughing. She laughs because she’s won, and she’s naked beneath you and it hadn’t been the last time and it won’t be the last time. You laugh because it’s the closest thing to crying and there’s something heavenly about the contrast of freckles on the skin below her hip bones.

When she asks you to go, you go, lying to yourself that it was all your idea, you hear the echo of her laughter follow you home until home feels like her and you have to leave again. When everything feels like her, your own skin sits foreign on your bones, part of you wonders if she even knows the trouble she causes and you think she’s done it all on purpose.

The first time that you don’t tell her that it’s the last time is when it’s true. You don’t ask her to leave and she tucks herself into your side and she fits like a puzzle piece, running patterns across your chest. When she smiles up at you you try to smile back. The fallout from your fingertips feels less like a disaster than it should.

You part, and she says “See you later” but you don’t, and you wonder if she ever saw the way your soul shaped itself around her. You were never anything more than a whiskey addled woman walking around with another woman in your chest, and the lack of her is more like a wound than a void, a cannonball hole the size and shape of a woman. You think you could have been happy without her, if you’d walked away the first time, but you lost everything when you saw her and it always felt like her hands were the only way to find it again.
She's got a lot of nerve and you don't
I wrote this first with he/him pronouns for both characters because it's loosely based on some fictional assholes combined with a really emotional song but I thought, what's better than that? Lesbians. And here we are. 
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You learned to ignore the sound of your conscience,
too long ago, probably.
It’s only a voice in your head that tells you
everything you do is wrong.

                You’re wrong, you’re wrong, he’s
                wrong
and he never should have been your mistake.

It was louder twenty years ago, when you’d
never felt his smile against your neck,
his teeth on the front of your throat; when
his hands didn’t live behind your eyelids like nightmares
that you don’t want to end.

                When you wake up screaming it’s always his fault
                and he’d only laugh if you ever told him why.

You tell yourself you started drinking again
just to wash his taste out of your mouth.
But, the more whiskey that’s in your stomach,
the more you want him in your bed;
somehow when you call him he’s always there too fast.

And he fucks you until you forget,
then fucks you until you remember, and
he always leaves you wanting more.

Forgetting would be easier.
You should have left him the first time.

You’re wrong,
the voice is still there, but the whiskey is louder.
He tastes so good you can’t stop.
probably broken if you look hard enough
writing poetry about fucked up relationships, like any aspiring poet. 
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silkshines
Laura
Artist | Hobbyist | Literature
United States
skype: silkshines
email: silkshines00@gmail.com\
@skytramps on twitter

orlatwombley.tumblr.com

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:iconbanjelerp:
Banjelerp Featured By Owner Aug 3, 2014  Hobbyist General Artist
Just in case you missed it: You've been tagged! :giggle::heart:
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:iconsilkshines:
silkshines Featured By Owner Dec 4, 2012  Hobbyist Writer
Ah yes, the creator of that group has an off and on relationship with dA, and it was a pleasure I'm sure.
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:iconkodama:
kodama Featured By Owner Nov 30, 2012  Hobbyist Writer
Hey, I saw that studiotwentyfive disappeared recently. I appreciate you featuring my piece there and I had planned to re-visit the page and check out the rest of the featured work. Anyhow, just thought I'd drop a line. Take care.
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:iconsomersett:
Somersett Featured By Owner Nov 17, 2011  Student Digital Artist
Yes ma'am. :meow:
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:iconsilkshines:
silkshines Featured By Owner Nov 17, 2011  Hobbyist Writer
gabbbehh, new dA I see?
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:iconsomersett:
Somersett Featured By Owner Nov 16, 2011  Student Digital Artist
laura :la:
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:iconhugqueen:
HugQueen Featured By Owner Jun 1, 2011   Writer
I'm doing alright, been doing so much housework. Everything needs cleaning. :lol:
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