seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from Germany
seen from T1
seen from TĂĽrkiye
seen from Russia
seen from United States
seen from United Kingdom
seen from United States
seen from Malaysia
seen from Uzbekistan
seen from Germany
seen from India
seen from TĂĽrkiye
seen from Canada
seen from China
seen from Puerto Rico
seen from Brazil
seen from United States
seen from Malaysia
It feels like love and lust with no one but myself. I speak to me and hear only my voice; the puzzle exists within me. it resonates and vibrates within my chest and no one else can translate. - what it feels like to write [and love. and breathe. and live.] poetry
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
back hunched. palms upright- meekly offering a serving platter. Take your blame, And put it in my hands. I will eat it and digest it for both of us. When you scream, and the words we once uttered to one another come back up your throat like acid and bile, I will clean it up. When the venom in you splatters on my arms and burns my skin off I will wear the scars to honor you. In time, you will see that even at our end I chose to protect you.
it's monday night and I'm dancing. my heart is beating 300 miles per hour (i think). I don't know if its because of nerves or fear; but I move to the rhythm straight faced and blank yet whole, all at once. I dance to displace this energy. It helps me process. I am devoted to both my feelings and my body. It becomes my mission to not exist as anything other than what I portray to them - happy. dancing. alive. confidence exudes me as much as I, it. But deep down I am nothing. And worth even less than that to anyone else. Soon, I don't know which part of me will win out. But I know the inside holds the outside hostage and the outside is no more.
nb
Level the surface of something as obscure as “depth”. Impossibly, you hold something that defies gravity, It exists but doesn’t. It holds weight and is weightless all at once. It is what we call “Depth”.
You desperately try to rewrite it in layman’s terms. Level the surface of something so untouchable, So that it may remain flat, palpable, real. We sand down our conversations and our interests buff away the personality so that we can remain digestible. Surface level, even. Level the surface of something so complex and tedious out of fear and nothing will remain.
Depth. The presence of layers, complexities, nuances: Illuminate the length of time, The width of desire, The height of our emotions. Spatially conjoined at each edge Are two points of contention then we search for exploited three-dimensional illusions As a way to level the surface.
In theory we understand reflection And refraction with something tangible And struggle to make it Transferrable to the abstract. In practice the tip of this vertex is the point of no change when spliced apart and dissected each barrier produces a diffraction too substantial to reconcile.
Depth. Cohesive on the surface. Leveled, to pieces.
nb
You hear poetry from everyone else's mouth but my words are a mere suggestion- something to think about and to do without. You speak to strangers on the road and your eyes finally light up. The dictionary - now borrowed - and finally used to decode. But somehow the stories I wrote for you still sit on the shelf collecting dust after a year or two; still forgotten, hitherto. It falls, occasionally, from the top shelf where it was once displayed when we first met. There it lives, in perpetuity, where your embarrassment cuts the deepest.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
bring community to me so that I may bow and touch its feet and pay for love in a life once so barren. The blood I spill for the sake of touch and conversation will fill my life for the rest of my time. bring community to me so that I will finally live and rid myself of "just me".
The prettiest package is stored in a box of authenticity like the softness of her face. In me is ugliness enough to make my own throat burn when I speak. My feelings are just as harsh. In another universe my hair might glide like a waterfall and my body might move like silk unencumbered by the weight of failure. but until then, my existence is fragmented- it skips like a DVD; lost in the milliseconds of darkness. panasonically paranoid - nb
How can I explain to you that the version of you that exists within me is shedding itself, like an exoskeleton, making room for something more sinister. This version of you peels its skin, moving slowly amidst the foliage, sinking your claws into the topsoil and ripping apart the moss.
Steathily, you move.
I extend my hands to feed you and offer you the water I collect. You tell me you must shed, and I pray you do so, with ease. It must hurt to be so contained.
Thoughtlessly, I aid you. I make room for you to grow, and I keep myself small. I feel my own skin shed in the process but I refuse to pick my scabs until you are clear and free. When my time comes, I intend to heal and be birthed, anew. Was it wrong to believe that you would, too?
I find secret pieces of you around me. A limb I did not know existed, and a fingernail you’ve keep hidden. The pieces do not match what I see. I begin to wonder if there’s someone else hiding amongst us, and fear dwells in the recesses of my gut. I have to bring you into my shelter, even if you are too big to fit in my arms, now.
So I place myself between a rock and a tree, and I stretch and stretch and stretch until I am happy I can hold you, and I take you away. But when we sleep at night, I hear sounds that feel familiar but with distorted pitch; almost like a crunching, or the smack of lips too intentional to be incidental. I stay hidden, afraid that we have been followed; under attack. I wonder where you are. I worry and I beg God to spare you and when God doesn’t aid me, I seek you myself only to find you eating your own body - the only version of you I knew.
Mourning you feels incomplete, because here you are crouched in front of me - licking your lips and watching nothing else, but me.
nb
