Shop Mobile More Submit  Join Login
About Literature / Artist CopperUnited States Recent Activity
Deviant for 4 Years
Needs Core Membership
Statistics 101 Deviations 3,948 Comments 12,638 Pageviews
×

Newest Deviations

Literature
dreams about kissing straight boys
​bleached cobalt eyes stare
into the sea
and it stares back at us,
wide and unexplored,
but it doesn't match up
to the things you think about
that you won't tell anyone
not even the sea
you're vaguely distant and I can't see it
but you still have an unknowable
sort of closeness,
brazen talk covering old war wounds
you hate being vulnerable
but you haven't learned yet that allowing yourself
to showcase your beating heart
to a world of knives
is the most personal kind of bravery there is;
I wake up and you're not there
but you're still
there,
the most infuriating kind of madness
tantalizing just out of my reach because I know
you don't swing that way
but it still makes me wonder what would happen
if something tilted a balance inside your skull
and made you consider
maybe, just maybe, what if
but there's nothing that could convince you
to even look at me, considering,
that way or any way
so I'll never tell you
and you'll never be disgusted with me
and we'll both never know
and I'll
:iconCopperfrost:Copperfrost
:iconcopperfrost:Copperfrost 3 0
Literature
snapshots
i. smashed flower on sidewalk
stepped on / thrown out / broken
any trace of compassion crushed underfoot
you tell me I’m too sensitive
you’ve never been beaten
ii. no-smoking sign and fishnet stockings
she sits under lamp light
skirt too short for the cold
jacket but no shirt―
no smoking here but she lights up
anyway,
a breath to lessen anxiety,
a breath to slowly destroy her lungs
but she’s already gone
anyway
from far too much else
iii. broken bottle and manuscript
he says he’s seen into the eyes of god
without flinching,
says they burn and that god
is not made of love,
he says there could never be love
in a fire like that;
he says he’s a prophet
given visions of a new bible
discredited as a drunk but possibly,
maybe,
he’s penning the apocalypse
and only liquor can keep you sane
after facing a deity
he won’t say he’s scared
but you can tell from his eyes,
and you think that god’s eyes
should look like hi
:iconCopperfrost:Copperfrost
:iconcopperfrost:Copperfrost 1 0
Literature
the kingdom of god
​cigarettes on the bathroom floor,
the ashes spelling desire-
aching bone-lust
like eve in the garden.
"i want the world," she said
but the world
only wanted
to spit her out.
:iconCopperfrost:Copperfrost
:iconcopperfrost:Copperfrost 2 0
Literature
A Letter to the Girl I Used to Be
Dear Irene,
I still see pictures of you haunting
every wall in my house
and your name on my mother's lips
because she hasn't learned what support really means
support
verb
to give approval, comfort, or encouragement to
from Middle English
originally in the sense to tolerate or put up with
she says she supports me but really
only supports you
because you're the girl she wants you to be
but you're not here anymore
and no one else knows your name besides the blood relatives
I'm too afraid to tell about me because they still think
we're the same person and they'll never understand
that someone can die in a body that is still alive
my mother only supports
who I am today in the Middle English sense
because she flinches when my stepbrother says hello
to me and when she took me to the doctor
to refill my medication I told them I wanted to start birth control
and she shifted uncomfortably in her seat
I told the doctor the real reason I wanted to stop having a period
and she told me once that I
:iconCopperfrost:Copperfrost
:iconcopperfrost:Copperfrost 0 0
Literature
this isn't love
this isn't love
i am only
pretending
to be cared about
this isn't love
how could someone
like you
or anyone
for that matter
see me
as anything
at all
this isn't love
i am selfish and cruel
i take without
ever giving
at all
i am a monster
by birthright
and upbringing,
nature and nurture,
i am destined
only to destroy
this isn't love
you tell me
you love me
and i never
believe you
the only ones
telling the truth
are the shadows
in my head
that tell me
to die
i cannot believe
anything good
about myself
because every time
someone has said
something good
they laughed
with their friends
afterward
this isn't love
you are not
capable
of loving me
because no one is
i push them away
too quickly
scared of touch
and of being melted
from a glacier
a black hole
in space
the bottom
of the ocean-
i crave warmth
like a moth
goes to flame
but i rot
in a frozen
corner
because i am not
good enough
to believe you
this isn't love
i am not
a person capable
of love
for seven years
after i was born
everyone th
:iconCopperfrost:Copperfrost
:iconcopperfrost:Copperfrost 1 0
Literature
saving
words are spaces between us
you come to me with scars on your wrist
a stomach full of pills didn't work again-
medication for the kids with no reason to live,
the numbing of the senseless and the vain;
and so we go back to the remedy
we feel a little pity but don't empathize
former heroes who quit too late
i won't let you say goodbye
we get so sick, we never wanted all this
wounds are ways to reveal us
we've been battered so hard we don't feel anymore
the truth is never all that it seems
where did i go wrong?
i searched for love in an empty world but all i found was hate
i'll die alone
and in the end i’d do it all again
had i known how to save a life
:iconCopperfrost:Copperfrost
:iconcopperfrost:Copperfrost 5 3
Literature
running
before we packed our bags
and left all this behind us in the dust
you ran into the night from all you had-
like a bullet through a flock of doves
in the middle of a gun fight,
no time for goodbye.
i am up against the wall,
a hostage to my own humanity
but one day you'll end up like me;
the night was all you had
how am i gonna get myself back home
i'm dying to get out of here
i have killed a man and all i know is
we are the last people standing
:iconCopperfrost:Copperfrost
:iconcopperfrost:Copperfrost 6 0
Literature
sierra
she was a girl who tucked cigarettes
between her broken bones, stuffing them
inside her like a scarecrow would straw
in an attempt to complete herself
she'd been used and fucked and violated
by boys with pretty eyes and silver tongues
and lips almost as loose as their pants zippers―
she fell in love with them when they said sorry,
and walked herself out when they did it again
alcohol rested on the insides of her lungs
like life support, nights spent just shy of wasted
on her mother's cheap wine in parking lots
and bong smoke,
all nothing more than coping strategies―
immediate reactions
when slicing her skin like a butcher would
a prize cut of meat didn't help any;
but she was more than skin and bones,
she was starlight and a bubbling champagne voice,
humor and a favorite song and butterfly bones
but she, she never realized how achingly beautiful she was
this girl, she spent her time thinking of how painfully
inadequate she was―
too much this, not enough that,
but she
:iconCopperfrost:Copperfrost
:iconcopperfrost:Copperfrost 3 0
Literature
lost lake cafe
we sit and talk
about the nuance
of everything-
i talk
about the blue raincoat
i lost yesterday,
you talk
about the ragdoll kitten
you adopted from a dumpster.
i say
the raincoat
was ugly anyway.
you say
you regret not buying
kitten food instead
of cat food because now,
you say,
he won't eat it.
in reality,
we sit and talk
about ourselves.
i talk
about losing the only thing
i care about
and trying to brush it off
by saying it wasn't worth
caring about at all.
you talk
about your obsessive
compulsions
and refusal to eat
by acting like it's just
the wrong kind,
except everything
is the wrong kind
and maybe you
are the wrong kind too.
i say
we should get coffee again
next week. maybe thursday.
you say
yeah, that sounds great.
i'll call you tomorrow.
we meet again thursday
and just like before
we sit
and talk
about nothing.
:iconCopperfrost:Copperfrost
:iconcopperfrost:Copperfrost 5 1
Literature
biting the apple
we go off like car alarms
and you ask me
what i am, but instead
i tell you what i am not
i am not patient
nor kind,
not intelligent or witty
or beautiful or articulate
or important
but you roll your eyes at me
and then i tell you
what i am.
i am a car crash
waiting to happen
under the fingertips
of misguided men,
i am the railway platform
everyone almost trips over
and the train always missed
just a second too late
i am the bruised knuckles
of an angry teenager
wishing he could fight
the world
instead of his walls
where his bedroom feels more
like a jail cell and school
a penitentiary, home is a prison
and everywhere is a prison
but the handcuffs are invisible
and the ball and chain are invisible
because they are wrapped around his mind
instead of his ankles and wrists
i am a prisoner
of the voice in my head
that tells me everyone hates me
and he hates everyone right back
for daring to speak to an ant like me
i am living in a tidal wave
of anti-depressants and amphetamines
take one in
:iconCopperfrost:Copperfrost
:iconcopperfrost:Copperfrost 3 0
Literature
fresco and drinking paint thinner
not every breakdown
becomes a poem
not every teardrop
is a glistening shard of ice
on a pretty girl's face
sadness is ugly
and broken
full of briars
and poison
sadness takes
without giving, it bends
and binds and snaps
sadness turns people
into shells of people
and turns those shells
into coffins of dust
illness is not beautiful
when it steals your ribcage
for its own territory,
filling up every crevice
with blackness until nothing
remains but a nebulous void
we are not made beautiful
because we are broken
van gogh and monet
are only exceptions
and no one makes mosaics anymore-
because there isn't enough glue
to hold the pieces of us together
:iconCopperfrost:Copperfrost
:iconcopperfrost:Copperfrost 7 1
Literature
people
people are people
and nothing more.
i have yet to learn this.
but people
are not art.
they are busy, rushing, forgetting
fixing unfixing refixing breaking breaking
they are messy and sharp and cutting and cold
which is sometimes
in itself
art
people are not mirrors.
they can only reflect
themselves in you,
and what they think of you
says as much about them
as it does about you.
people are not medicine.
but i have always self-medicated,
spun abuse into deserving it
and overdosed
on verbal venom spat
from the mouths of snakes
and mothers.
people are not gods.
even so i turn them
into zeus and hera,
creators and crafters and obelisks
of marble,
and cry when they sin
as if I didn't know they were mortal
but oh, how they are mortal
and how they lie
and leave
and fade
and then people
become memories
and then people
become nothing
and people
were always
nothing
:iconCopperfrost:Copperfrost
:iconcopperfrost:Copperfrost 3 2
Literature
father
father says girl
father says she
father says daughter
father says just like me
father takes pills
father smashes cups
father screams at a five-year-old
for knocking over coffee cup
father says no one loves you
father says baby girl
father says learn your place
father says you don't know pain
honey-lemon cough drops
cheap beer dirty carpet
voice inflections wooden porch
tan lines scratchy face blue eyes
scared
father snaps let me kiss you
father won't stop touching
father laughs at stop and no
father always laughs
:iconCopperfrost:Copperfrost
:iconcopperfrost:Copperfrost 2 1
Literature
loneliness, circa 1912
you were always born alone.
under a sea-turned sky,
you cried for a mother that never was.
you ached. you shed the first
of many tears for the sullen dishonesty
of humans.
you grew.
you grew into a sunflower,
shadowing and tall-
all pale yellow eyes and burgandy stars
dotting your cheeks.
you grew, and so did your curiosity
of your existence.
you searched for the mother.
you found her in tidal pools
and half-subterranean caves,
in swaying wheat fields
and the songs of passing caravans,
and traders
huddled around campfires,
blazing orange concentrated
in the tiniest speck of vivid life
amongst the black.
you never felt alone until then.
you were born alone, yes.
but now you felt it.
and then,
slowly,
you stopped.
you gave up the search
for the mother, knowing
it was the dirt that birthed you
and to the dirt you would return.
you gave up listening to the traders' songs,
the waves, and even
the sea-turned sky held no comfort any longer.
your bones creaked
in sorrow
and longing. they wante
:iconCopperfrost:Copperfrost
:iconcopperfrost:Copperfrost 3 1
Literature
7.1.15, 9:28
dormancies, vacancies
we all become the titles of things
we used to hate
hate to love, love to hate
hate simply to be bitter
and flavor the dull air around us
hollows under skin
under surface,
we create holes in each other
like excavators
drilling for the oil in our blood,
fracking
and grinding away
peeling back the layers
of what makes us human,
neurons proteins sodium-potassium ions
we used to be powerful
we used to be gods
of our own creation
divine-driven madness
dive-bombing abandoned
hotels and searching
for vacancies, vacancies
something more empty than our own hearts
some things you can't
fill up with smoke
there is more to this shell
than chemical reactions
or at least,
there used to be
but now
just a chemically-induced reality
hand-fed to coma patients,
terminated.
:iconCopperfrost:Copperfrost
:iconcopperfrost:Copperfrost 2 0
Literature
balance point
you walk into the room.
you notice three different things about the room.
first, it's filled with smoke. you think you smell cigarettes, with the faint trace of bong smoke if you concentrate hard enough. the air is hazy and hard to see through. you see three different ash trays on the same table and all of them have at least one still-lit cigarette sitting in them. one has a single cigar.
second, ronnie radke is faintly screaming on the radio in the background about crooked dice and betrayal. it's an old radio, busted up and in need of replacement, and the sound quality is shoddy and filled with static. no one seems to have noticed this except you.
third, there's a pool table, abandoned, and three men playing poker at a small table in the corner. one of them winks at you. you don't smile back.
the longer you stand in the doorway of the room, the more you notice about it.
there is white dust of questionable origin in tiny residue lines on the table with the ash trays. the man in the bac
:iconCopperfrost:Copperfrost
:iconcopperfrost:Copperfrost 3 0

deviantID

Copperfrost
Copper
Artist | Literature
United States
my name is Copper and I'm nonbinary gay nerd trash

they/them
Interests

Comments


Add a Comment:
 
Hidden by Owner
Hidden by Commenter
Add a Comment: