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i can still smell your rose perfume, 
and hear the hum of your voice, 
when i close my eyes and
attempt to drown the world in dreams. 
i can still feel the curl of your lips against mine,
the gentle touch of your fingers on my cheek. 
i can still hear your voice as you tell me you love me. 
and dear god, woman, i love you too. 

we're like fireworks, 
and symphonies lighting up the sky.
we make the world a little brighter, 
and take everyone's breath away. 
my poet fingers twined with your typist fingers, 
my ink veins and your ink finger tips.
you left black finger smudges on my shirt. 
a permanent stain of an almost love. 

i can still hear the echoes of our failed romance, 
when he tells me he loves me, 
and i can still feel the echo of your unsteady heartbeat against my back, 
when he hugs me close. 
i can still feel our end when i'm trying to restart a beginning for him. 
and i can't help but miss the curl of your hair around your ear,
and the way it tickled my collarbone when you kissed me hard. 
and oh dear god do i miss you. 

i really hate that in every beginning there's an end. 
and i really hate that because i wanted a new beginning, 
we absolutely had to end. 
i hate that his hands are not typist hands. 
that his hands do not work against my skin like a craft. 
that he does no breathe the same way i breathe. 
i hate that i keep longing for you, 
and i hate that i told myself you weren't worth the effort of my words. 
because you do. you do. you do. you do. you do. 
you are the best there ever was and the best i never was. 
and he is almost everything, he is close just not close enough. 

because for starters, 
his hands are not typist hands. 
and his heartbeat does not match my own. 
his lips don't curl when i kiss him. 
he doesn't look like sunshine on a rainy day. 
and i'm sorry. i'm sorry. i'm sorry. i'm sorry. i'm sorry. i'm sorry. i'm sorry. 
i can't tell you enough. 
i know i hurt you. i know. i know. i know. 
i know it wasn't fair. 
and i'm sorry. i'm sorry. i'm sorry.
four.
prompt: to every beginning is an end. 

so i'll probably redo this at a more reasonable hour...like, 2 am is not reasonable. 
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i'm getting really tired
of wiping tears off your mascara stained cheeks. 
i'm getting really tired because i never get a genuine thank you. 
i get a quick kiss on the cheek, 
as you plunge the knife into my back,
as if i were a wind up doll and the knife were my key. 
i am not a wind up doll,
looking pretty in the shop windows of your heart. 
and i never quiet understood why i meant so little...
why i meant so much. 

i am your friend, 
i am not your concealer. 
i will not conceal the parts of you that you dislike. 
i will not hide you from the world. 
my heart may be big but it is already stretched too thin, 
tearing at the center. 
i decided to take a look inside, 
and i've discovered that you are an automaton.
you do not have a heart. 
and that is the saddest thing about it. 
and i, as an inept, inventor am unable to make you a heart.
when is it that your heart stopped thrumming?
when is it that your heart stopped loving?
I understand this heart is unable to do a lot of things.
but that does not mean you get to treat me like you do.
i am tired of wiping tears of your mascara stained cheeks.
i am tired of feeling bad for the wolf in sheeps clothing.
i am tired of being your wind up doll,
that you keep locked away until you feel needy.
and i am done with that.
I am done with you.
"I desire the things that will destroy me in the end. "
~
The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath, entry 63, page 55

three.
this is a bit of a mess. I was following the prompt and then.... yeah. 

prompt:This heart will never work again
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i. 
i really hate my anxiety, 
it makes me hate doing the things i love. 
my anxiety is a homewrecker. 
my anxiety prevents me from asking my dad to drive, 
because my throat swells shut as i start to speak. 
my anxiety prevents my kisses from being complete. 
my anxiety prevents me from being the Marilyn Monroe this Aubrey Hepburn body is. 
my anxiety....my anxiety....my anxiety, 
did not matter to you.

ii. 
my anxiety did not matter to you, 
which was a first. everything about me mattered to you in some way...
but not my anxiety. you brushed it off. 
and i can't tell if that is a complement
or if you're rubbing salt in the wound. 
though, my favorite thing, is the fact that my incomplete kisses make you b r e a t h l e s s, 
and you've grown used to me breathing sonnets against your skin. 
you've gotten used to me calling you a masterpiece. 
you've gotten used to me seeing you as paper skin, and ink veins. 
you've gotten used to the fact that i see you as a poet's masterpiece. 
 
iii. 
i wish i could tell you one of my major pet peeves is when someone
says the same sentence more than once with only slim variation. 
i am an author, a poet, a wordsman,
did you think i wouldn't notice that the underlying message is the same?
i wish i could tell you that i also hate cliches, but that with you they were okay. 
i wish i could tell you, that despite the fact we are the couple in the rain without so much as a jacket to cover us,
that i love you. i love you. i love you. i love you. 
and some days i'm not sure it's you i love or the rain. 
i mean, because when it comes to you...you adapt to me. 
you adapt to the fact i won't tell you what happened at my aunts house 4 years ago. 
you adapt to my silence, even if it's violent. 
you adapt and you move on.

iv. 
i wish i could tell you that i know who your ex-fiance was. 
i wish i could tell you that she is so pretty, and that i hate when you talk bad about her. 
i wish i could tell you that i don't swallow these words on purpose, 
but my mind filters words differently, as to not make any wounds. 
i am not interested in using my gift of words as a weapon, 
i will not start a war of wit that we both get hurt in. 
i just...i just wish i could talk to people about how i feel. 
i wish i could adapt. 
i wish i'd stop finding muse at 3:43 in the morning, 
when the house is quiet, 
and my mind is violent. 

v. 
i wish i would stop drinking tea like it's a life line, 
i can't drown my emotions in apple tea, 
putting it down on paper is much more permanent.
i wish i would stop swallowing words that slit my wrist from the inside.
i wish i stopped using words like "chill, fierce, and bravo. "
which are all dandy words unless you use them like me.
(i wish i'd stop using words like 'dandy, tidbit, and waltz' in everyday sentences)
i wish i could stay on topic.
i wish that we were the couple that took the downpour as an opportunity to make our cliches come alive. 
i wish i had the healing hands of a goddess to erase the last trace, 
of your car crash romance, so beautiful and tragic. 

vi. 
i guess in a way i got tired of you adapting, 
and us kissing just didn't feel right.
and i guess that was killing me and i guess you won't understand. 
because to you being caught in the rain without so much as a jacket, 
was just getting wet, not a perfect moment to cliche the hell out of our love lives. 
i guess i get tired of using 'your', 'you're', 'you'.
and 'there', 'their', and 'they're'. 
i guess i never have the right way to make the sting on my rejection stop ringing in your ears, 
or the words to make us alright. 

vii. 
or the words to tell you that then it comes down to it, 
i really hate kissing. 
i really hate making cliches.
i hate calling incomplete sketches masterpieces. 
i hate driving. 
i hate the quiet. 
i hate what happened to me four years ago at my aunts house. 
i hate not being enough, or too much, 
or just right but you not being enough or too much. 
i hate my depression. 
my regression. 
my obsession. 
i hate vertical scars on my wrist and thighs, 
i hate apologies. 

viii. 
ill tell you what i do love, 
i loved us. 
i loved us with every fiber of my being, 
but you were like a delicate rose and i was a tornado, 
and we couldn't stay together without one of us being hurt. 
i love tea at absurd hours of the mornings, 
i love succulent plants, 
i love knee socks and over sized sweaters, 
i love almost and always. 
and i love the words 'legitimately, expectantly, and endlessly. '
and when boils down to you and i? 
i love that you were my favorite possibility of forever. 
that we weren't always never. 

ix.
i hate adapting. 
i hate not being. 
i hate almost forevers that are so close. 
i hate 3 am panic attacks. 
i hate getting soaked in the rain, 
just to tell you that i do in fact love you. 
i hate good nights without i love you's 
but you don't understand because you adapted. 
you adapted to my anxiety and now it's locked in your closet, 
out of sight out of mind. 

x. 
I really hate my anxiety, 
it prevents me from doing the things i love. 
it has me teaching myself how to breathe again at 5:15 in the morning on a school day. 
it has me keeping violent sonnets kept like razor blades in the corners of my mouth. 
it has me in disbelief of the future. 
it prevents me from being the Marilyn Monroe this Aubrey Hepburn exterior could be, 
but in the scheme of things?
i like being an Aubrey. 

"so this is my life, and i want you to 
know that i am both happy and sad, 
and i am still figuring out how that could be. "
-Charlie, the Perks of Being a Wallflower By Stephen Chbosky
two.
so, im kinda keeping to my new years resolution of writing everyday. this one doesn't really count i guess, i mean i wrote it at 3 something and saved it but didn't upload it...i still wrote though, so. 8 days until my birthday!

Prompt: A couple stuck in a rainstorm without so much as a jacket. 

I quoted Twenty One Pilots somewhere, see if you can find it. it's subtle so, look carefully. 

Thank you AmazingHat
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i.
when your kissing him, 
check for razors hidden on the underside of his tongue. 
and when his fingers are in your hair,
check and make sure his nails are not jagged blades. 
he seems like an apple, 
sweet and sturdy and just the cure for a cold, 
but remember snow white. he is a poison laced apple. 

ii.
i'd spend every warm june morning,
plucking petals off of flowers wondering, 
he loves me, he loves me not, he loves me, he loves me not, he loves me. 
because a now dead flower told me to believe, i did. 
and when he kissed me, it was like the first time. it was like the last time. 
it was a promise. 
just not a promise of forever. 
because he was afraid of forever. 

iii.
his mother had bottles of sand on her walls, 
sitting on a shelf, place precariously on the green flora paper of the kitchen. 
she calls it her "jars of happier times"
and i think that's why she gave me a bottle of sky green sand. 
because he kissed me under the sand bottles, 
on new years eve, 
tasting of cider and sparklers, and a year of mistakes and wonderful possibilities. 

iv. 
but i was his new year's resolution, 
and nobody keeps those for long. 
i think it was mid august, 
gazing at the glow-in-the-dark stars,
aligned on his ceiling from his childhood ,
is when i understood we were meant for the winter,
and the summer melted our ice hearts and put out our candle of possibility. 
and i knew he knew that way before i did. 
i took his hand and closed my eyes willing it away. 

v. 
i think i knew all along.
you're just his type, 
long legs, dazzling smile, green eyes, auburn hair....
i knew that he had those thoughts of togetherness locked in his eyes, 
because when he kissed me,
his lips did not move to my own.
no. they danced to a different tone. 
it was then that i cut my tongue on a concealed blade,
"Cheyanne."
i am not cheyanne.
i do not like how easily that name rolled off his tongue. 

vi.
all along i knew you were sorry, 
but it was just perfect when his new year's resolution 
became to get rid of me. 
so i kissed him at mid night. i kissed him. i kissed him. i kissed him. 
and he was champagne and sparklers and broken hearts. 
it was then, fingers in my hair, 
i felt the blades. 
"love you endlessly."
no. we were madly. not endless. we didn't believe in endless. 

vii.
i occasionally sprinkle the sky blue sand in my hand, 
it reminds me of his eyes,
and the harder i grip the quicker it falls. 
and that was just like me and him. 
so i left him. i left him. i l e f t him. 
i left us. 
i left m a d l y.
i took my words, and my kiss, and my f o r e v e r. 
and i can't believe i thought he l o v e d me. 
so when you sit in that black leather winged arm chair think of me. 
think of the possibility that was me and him. 
and think about the fact forever boy is actually n e v e r boy. 
and never boy is afraid of forever. 

viii. 
be wary when he kisses you like it's the first time, 
be hesitant when he kisses you like it's the last time. 
be proud when he tells you he loves you e n d l e s s l y. 
because you are not the first, i wasn't either. 
and we weren't the last.
n e v e r boy is afraid of forever and he's like sand slipping faster
the tighter you squeeze. 
and next time you go to his mother's house, 
look at the bottles of sand, the happier times. 
look at the glow-in-the-dark stars, and ponder. 
and see me in the echo of his kiss. 
just do not end up nothing more than that, 
do not become an e   c   h   o.
"if the moon smiled, she would resemble you.
you leave the same impression
of something beautiful, but annihilating."
-Sylvia Plath, Ariel
{o}ne
here. i was going to do that cliche end of the year poem...but im not quiet ready to say good bye to this year. 
my new years resolution is to write everyday. ha, lets see if that happens. 

thank you AmazingHat for the prompt.

prompt: i cant believe i thought he loved me
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I'm starting to get tired of people.
And being and it hurts.

Nobody cares anymore...

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ECHORIVER6450's Profile Picture
ECHORIVER6450
Kehlani (Kake or KK)
Artist | Hobbyist | Literature
United States
Author || 14 || Panromantic/Demisexual

So here's the deal: I have insomnia and deal with little bouts of crippling depression. I have social anxiety but tend to be a outgoing person I guess.
I have a mild addiction to Tumblr and Pinterest. It's a bit unhealthy.

I want to preform Slam Poetry...but yeah social anxiety. Yay?
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:iconshadethelucario:
ShadeTheLucario Featured By Owner Jan 12, 2016  Hobbyist General Artist
Ay! Happy birthday C:
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:iconechoriver6450:
ECHORIVER6450 Featured By Owner Jan 13, 2016  Hobbyist Writer
Thank you!!!!
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:iconhemolittoral:
hemolittoral Featured By Owner Jan 1, 2016  Student Writer
I really like your poetry -- and also, I feel you on the slam poetry thing. Anxiety is a killer.
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:iconechoriver6450:
ECHORIVER6450 Featured By Owner Jan 1, 2016  Hobbyist Writer
Thank you for the follow!~ and the complement! I'm getting better with the anxiety thing....kinda. I've wrote a couple slam poems, it's sad that I can't preform them.
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:iconhemolittoral:
hemolittoral Featured By Owner Jan 1, 2016  Student Writer
I totally get that, and it's my pleaure! I've gotten out of the habit of writing slam poems because literally I have a block where I can't write poems longer than like, 5 stanzas recently. rip me
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:iconechoriver6450:
ECHORIVER6450 Featured By Owner Jan 1, 2016  Hobbyist Writer
When ever I get writer's block I read Sylvia Plath. She's my inspiration and, in my eyes, a goddess of poetry. I recently have been able to only write short things, {O}ne is first good long piece I've written in awhile.
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(1 Reply)
:icondamevulpes:
DameVulpes Featured By Owner Dec 20, 2015  Student Writer
Thank you so much for the watch! :heart:
It's super appreciated. :aww:
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:iconkat-quills:
Kat-Quills Featured By Owner Dec 8, 2015  Hobbyist Digital Artist
I play bongos while walking down the stairs
*Falls down stairs*
Never play bongos while walking down the stairs
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:iconkat-quills:
Kat-Quills Featured By Owner Dec 8, 2015  Hobbyist Digital Artist
The ring Arden chooses has it engraved with the words 
 'Clyde, you're an asshat' 
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