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About Varied / Hobbyist CaitlinFemale/United States Recent Activity
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Literature
legacy
this is something you should know
about women who are raised by mythological creatures —
not only are we the granddaughters of
all the witches that you failed to burn, we are also
the heirs to so much more.
because my mother is a dragon, and
you best believe me when I tell you that
she taught me all the secrets of breathing fire.
I was born wrapped in the flames of
her fierce love, and the armored strength of her scaled body
taught me all that I need to know about storming the castle; it was
she, my dragon-mother, who first buoyed me
aloft during flying lessons; it was her great wings that gave me
shade to rest under when even my tolerance for heat
wilted under the blazing glare of the world.
I need no sword but my own—the one that my mother
forged for me in the fires of her own heart.
I need no shield but my own—the one that my mother
designed for me in the fortress of her arms.
I need no armor but my own—the one that my mother
invented for me fro
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Literature
a vow of silence
I search for you in silence;
not a word betrays my quest,
nor does any sigh of breath
cross my lips and so break
the stillness of my search.
Others search with trumpets and
with fanfare, with hullabaloo and
with boisterous cheers. Their gaiety
is not mine to find you with; their explosions
of delight are not those which paint
the map that I follow.
It is in the places unpeopled—in
those places few and far between, where
only blank, wild, untamed-near-nothingness roams
in the expanses between here and there
that I may find the traces and hints of you.
Every mark on my map is hardwon,
yet I persevere and continue on, ever searching
for those tokens of your passage.
I will find you. I will uncover every last
footprint that you leave behind you,
until finally I come to the place where
I will find you. And when I have found you,
the earth itself may flutter in its orbit
at my exultation. But until that day—
I search for you in silence.
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Literature
7 Reasons to Turn Down a Marriage Proposal
One:
I met you at the library yesterday
and the only I said to you was, “Excuse me,”
as I reached past you to grab the latest
science-fiction novel by David Weber on the shelves.
While I appreciate your own appreciation
for science-fiction in life and in literature,
I don’t watch Doctor Who so asking me to
“Be your Companion through Time and Space”
while offering a ring shaped like the TARDIS
is not really a thing I am interested in.
Two:
I like my coffee the same way that I like
my Sunday mornings—slow and sweet
and oh-so-just-right-hot.
Not too hot and not too cold, you understand?
But wrapped up in that delicious kind of tangle
where languor meets luxury in a lush kind
of wallow and you and I roll around in the mud.
Sunday is a day of rest—
But you like your coffee black, if you drink it all.
Black and burnt and boiling; no sweetener to
be found at all in you, no cream. No languor,
no luxury, no lush.
Three:
“I lov
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Literature
Insomniac
When I am without you,
I do not sleep.
I lie awake,
in my solitary bed, with
my hands stretched out
into empty space that
should not be in the bed
beside me.
Yet when I am with you,
neither then do I sleep!
I lay next to you, with my
hands outstretched to meet
your own, with our fingers
entwined together.
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Literature
sit down and stay a while
The welcome mat at the door
is made of thumbtacks
and barbed wire.
It is a sharply pointed
gesture, at once both inviting you in
while reminding you of
the no man's land you are about to cross.
Despite its prickly materials,
the welcome mat is not intended
as a deterrent; it is in some ways a test, instead.
Are you willing to be
vulnerable? Are you willing to accept
the guard? Are you willing to lay out
your own welcome mat, regardless
of its materials? Are you ready
to cross the no man's land?
The welcome mat may be designed
with thumbtacks and barbed wire,
but no one ever demanded
that you remain standing on it.
The no man's land is not a safe place.
Please, come in, and be comfortable.
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Literature
Among Other Demons
Sometimes I wonder if love
might not be, after all,
the biggest lie we've ever told ourselves.
Sometimes I wonder if love
might not be, after all,
the greatest trap we've ever walked into.
What other experience
has us kill another person? What other experience
allows us to kill ourselves?
What other experience drives us
to madness or despair; to paranoia
and fury; jealousy, suspicion, vulnerability,
violence, obsession, or lethality --
all at the same time?
What other experience
can mask our moments of fear,
or rage or pain, with a smile?
What other experience
can soothe every hurt, real
or imagined, with a kiss and a caress?
We allow love to change our minds,
reunite our souls,
and hold our hearts in a vise grip.
Everything we do
is in the name of love.
How can it not be a trap?
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Literature
It's a Fine Line...
I can no longer resist.
I have fought, and striven, and used
all the strength of my heart and soul—
yet I can do no other than succumb.
I am overcome with madness, today.
There is fire in my throat, and every breath
scrapes raw against the inner side
of my lungs, which mixes sparks
into my blood. I cannot hide my trembling,
the shake and jitter of each and every limb;
the vibration that results as I do my best
to contain, within my skin, a monster.
The pressure climbs behind the sockets
of my skull, pressing against the tender,
quivering jelly-flesh of my eyes and turning
optic nerves into lances along which dances
lightning.
I have no space to expand into; unlike the hermit
crab, I cannot simply abandon one
shell for another, larger abode. My skin is all
I am given and I must remain within
its confines, never reaching past the limits
set upon me at my birth; I must keep my shape.
I must bleed it off, the creeper tendrils; cut
them back and cull its growth. I am my own, I
am the
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Literature
Never-Neverland, Before and After
I have always existed in metaphors,
in imagery and poetic conceit.
It is in the place where dreaming
and reality intersect that
you may find me best.
My blood sings with personification and
hyperbole, and my bones hum
to the songs of simile and irony. There lurks
in my genetics the last bright parts
of a starlight code, drawing me
ever further into the murky brilliance
of the place between.
I am both the before
and after spaces of Never-
Neverland, but I am no Lost Boy
who cannot remain within
the dream, nor yet am I the Peter Pan
who cannot leave the dream.
I am the bridge.
The constant child of
two worlds and two loves,
I lie permanently and joyously
bound in the tug-of-war of moon
and sun. For I have always
lived in metaphors, in the space
between here and now and
between you and I.
Find me in the moments where
your dreams meet your realities
and join me in a toast --
to metaphor.
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Literature
Murphy's Law (or, Accidents Happen)
Everything has its time.
Everything has its place.
Some things in our world even
have both—a time and a place.
All happens as it is ordained
to happen and we find out when and where
that ordination is when it is our turn. The stars
turn and turn and turn, the planets swing
through orbits, and the seasons change from one
to another; all of life lined up in order,
following the natural routine.
Routine is boring.
Love is not boring.
Love throws all things into chaos, and
reminds us that we, too, are mortal.
Love does not allow us to be complacent, but
instead shakes up the very foundations
of our lives, breaking us down and rebuilding us
into something never yet seen before.
There is no time for accidents in life.
There is no place for accidents in life.
Love is, then, by all accounts an accident.
The most glorious mistake we can ever make
is to throw ourselves wholeheartedly into
experiencing love for another person,
and only hope that they make the glorious m
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Literature
bogeyman
lately i’ve been writing
desperate love songs, trying
to find out where
you went. yet when i follow
the trail of bread crumbs
left behind haphazardly, i find
the open well, deep in the belly
of Nowhere-Neverwhere.
only one thing would make me
recoil from plunging after
into the recesses below:
darkness.
there is no light in you,
there is no heart in you
how could I consign myself
to throw in with that emptiness?
I cannot throw my heart
after you, into the dwellings
of shadow. my heart is my light.
how could I waste my heart-light
where there is no mirror to refract it?
so I am boarding up the well, posting
barbed wire and lines of “KEEP OUT
DO NOT ENTER”
pray that the well goes undiscovered
and undisturbed. there are monsters in there
that should be ever left alone.
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Literature
Hammurabi's Crucible
And I shall walk
through the valley of shadow
and of flame, and every step
I take will leave dusty, ashy prints
for those behind me.
And I shall walk
through this crucible, to come
out the other side as gleaming
and burnished as the work of any
finest blacksmith. For it is true
that fire will burn away all
impurities so as to only leave behind
the purest ores, yet
it is also still true that
the operative word here is “burn”.
To burn is to hurt.
And oh, my heart and
my soul, they burn now
as I shall walk through this valley
of shadow and of flame, with
every step forward that I take
leaving a trail behind me.
It’s a cleansing kind
of fire, the kind of pain that
stretches the ragged pieces
of my uneven edges back
together and holds them there
with a blazing flare of thread.
For yea, though I walk through the shadow
of the valley of Death, I shall fear no evil.
I have all the light I need to find my way home.
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Literature
Champagne Butterflies
My heart flutters behind the walls
of my ribs, securely wedged between
the gasping, heaving flesh of
my twin yearning lungs.
My lungs strive and strain,
gulping greedily at every last atom
of oxygen that they can wring.
My ribs protect these fragile parts,
my most vulnerable places, but
even my ribs cannot keep you out.
You are in the air; every atom
is infused with the stardust of
your skin; every breath redolent
with the heat of your eyes.
You are the most potent drug I have
ever known, and I am addicted
to each puff, each draw, each gasp
of breath that draws you
ever deeper into my lungs from
where your powerful narcotic slips
into my bloodstream and follows
the great signs down the highway of my veins
to reach the inner chambers of my heart.
Each new injection of you
sets my heart to fluttering all over
again, until it bursts wide open—
and then all I have is
a dream, an addiction, and
a ribcage full of butterflies.
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Literature
Tailor Unavailable for Alterations
alternatively titled, "Free Alterations Available With In-Store Purchase!"
I wear my skin as an ill-fitting suit
of clothes; in some places
too baggy and too loose, and
in others too close and too
tight.
I am too much to fit
beneath the confines of my skin.
There is no comfort here,
there is no defense
from the outside world; it seeps
through the porous protection
of my tenuous flesh.
The elements are contained within
me, locked behind the heavy clothing
of my skin. I am a tempest
in a teapot, and my porcelain shell is
instead the poor elastic fit of humanity.
There are no ties that I unlace, no snaps
or grommets; no buckles or belts; no zippers,
clasps, or buttons—no seams to rip
so as to let loose the building pressure
beneath each stitch.
There is no tailor who may ease
this uncomfortable fit; there is
no cut-and-stitch that will remedy this awkward
between-the-sizes sensation in my own flesh.
I shall be my own tailor, it seems,
and fit my self to my flesh
and my
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Literature
The Battle of Apep and Ra
I reached out one morning, raising my hands
to stretch toward the sky above me,
and when I closed my fingers, my fist clenched
tight, I had my prize in my grasp. Quickly,
I brought my captured grace up,
to rest against my lips, and from there—
I swallowed the sun.
The sky above me no longer danced
with the burning of daytime glimmers; instead
it was aphotic, devoid of any sight,
and frost-bound. The stars were fixed
in their orbits, their own bright shine changed
to glacial flares.
I did not care.
My throat throbbed and ached
from the bite of the sun’s touch, and
I savored every sting. Soon my insides set themselves ablaze,
glorying in the close, welcome fire I had ingested.
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Literature
sun worship
Once, long ago, I swallowed the Sun.
I took the cloudless flash
and the enkindled swelter deep within;
I hid them in the innermost part
of my chapel-self, where daily invocations
were offered with all dignity.
My veneration has only ever
been of my own volition; I alone
am the supplicant to offer adulation.
I offer vespers to the Sun
not out of desperation—for there is no idol
that enjoys troubles—instead, what I offer
is ever of my own making and adoration.
But reverence is not a sentence
upon the revered, and rite and ritual
are not subjection of the venerated, and yet
I cannot stop my native exaltation in
the fact of your existence.
For even should the Sun move on
in its cycle, those who have been branded
by its touch can do no other than to honor
their brief time as the heliodromus, as
the one who carried the Sun.
I, unfortunately, am a poor representative
of that vaunted order. It is not within me
to give up the mantle, and to feel cold.
So please come back, bri
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Literature
flying dutchman
And I will wash you away
And I will be washed clean
within the salt of the sea and the whip of the wind.
And only the Moon will know
that I still walk the shores
looking for you
amongst whatever flotsam or jetsam manages to beach itself;
and each time I will pray that the tide brings you back to me
and each time I will pray that we again can slip so quietly and so still
to the bottom of the waters,
sheltered from the crashing waves of the rocky coast;
the rocky coast where I have been shipwrecked
and where I walk,
every day praying that among the wreckage
I will find a familiar face,
and I will kiss the life back into your cold lips,
breathe the life back into your eyes
and you will do the same for me.
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Demetyr
Caitlin
Artist | Hobbyist | Varied
United States
Sometimes my skin needs to be readjusted to fit me, and that's when art happens: a sketch, a story, a dance, a painting, a poem, a play. An expression.

A mild-mannered English teacher by day; a wild writer by night.
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:iconzoccu:
zoccu Featured By Owner Apr 26, 2016  Hobbyist Traditional Artist
Thanks for the fav!
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:iconjoeytribbiani125:
JoeyTribbiani125 Featured By Owner Oct 3, 2014  Hobbyist Digital Artist
HAPPY BIRTHDAY!!!
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:icondreamsinstatic:
dreamsinstatic Featured By Owner Apr 4, 2013
Thanks for the :+fav:s
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:icondemetyr:
Demetyr Featured By Owner Apr 4, 2013  Hobbyist General Artist
You are most welcome! They are amazing pieces.
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:iconmer-wench:
mer-wench Featured By Owner Jan 7, 2013  Hobbyist General Artist
Thanks for the fave, lady.
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:icondemetyr:
Demetyr Featured By Owner Jan 12, 2013  Hobbyist General Artist
Of course! :)
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