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Literature Text
i.
she loathed his presence;
like a bemoaned animal,
he was always on the peripheral
of her vision, crawling
along the line of her sight:
he was blank-faced, eternally
cold, unfeeling.
and she hated him for it.
still every time she went out,
chasing, cause the beating in
her chest was whispering
forbidden things [about
reciprocity
and love
and eternity].
she never caught anything
besides a cold,
which she named
after him,
since it blocked her airway,
and made her shiver,
and go from flaming hot
to freezing cold.
just like he did.
ii.
when she sat besides him she
held her breath, desperate to catch
up on his rhythm; the melody of
silence.
with every falling star she wished
he would wake up with crimson
streaming through his veins. but
she always kept in mind that those
stars were just as dead and cold
as he was. still they were capable
of shining were he didnt seem to be.
iii.
she didn't understand that,
despite the fact that it was as if
he was carved from stone or granite,
she would look at him
and could feel her heart in her throat.
from time to time she'd catch herself
with his thought in her head,
his droning voice playing in her ears
on repeat, like a favourite tune.
and it didn't make any sense;
no one's ever loved
a statue,
because no one likes to be
unrequited
iv.
his cold stone eyes turned out to
be meteorites; slamming craters
into her conscious and leaving her
on fire.
she found herself drunk in unknown
arms and concluded water nor alcohol
could stop the blaze. like no other
touch could fill the holes.
breathing flesh would never be enough,
craving as she was for the cold marble
of his arms.
v.
she asked if he would be her cold
stone moon, but he simply didnt
re[fl][ea]ct. and in the end she
looked at the polished grey of his
eyes and realized she was not the
only one lost.
maybe she couldnt live without him;
he never lived at all.
she loathed his presence;
like a bemoaned animal,
he was always on the peripheral
of her vision, crawling
along the line of her sight:
he was blank-faced, eternally
cold, unfeeling.
and she hated him for it.
still every time she went out,
chasing, cause the beating in
her chest was whispering
forbidden things [about
reciprocity
and love
and eternity].
she never caught anything
besides a cold,
which she named
after him,
since it blocked her airway,
and made her shiver,
and go from flaming hot
to freezing cold.
just like he did.
ii.
when she sat besides him she
held her breath, desperate to catch
up on his rhythm; the melody of
silence.
with every falling star she wished
he would wake up with crimson
streaming through his veins. but
she always kept in mind that those
stars were just as dead and cold
as he was. still they were capable
of shining were he didnt seem to be.
iii.
she didn't understand that,
despite the fact that it was as if
he was carved from stone or granite,
she would look at him
and could feel her heart in her throat.
from time to time she'd catch herself
with his thought in her head,
his droning voice playing in her ears
on repeat, like a favourite tune.
and it didn't make any sense;
no one's ever loved
a statue,
because no one likes to be
unrequited
iv.
his cold stone eyes turned out to
be meteorites; slamming craters
into her conscious and leaving her
on fire.
she found herself drunk in unknown
arms and concluded water nor alcohol
could stop the blaze. like no other
touch could fill the holes.
breathing flesh would never be enough,
craving as she was for the cold marble
of his arms.
v.
she asked if he would be her cold
stone moon, but he simply didnt
re[fl][ea]ct. and in the end she
looked at the polished grey of his
eyes and realized she was not the
only one lost.
maybe she couldnt live without him;
he never lived at all.
Literature
I'm Hiding
Dear World,
Im hiding.
Im behind the makeup; over-done, ostentatious, not-really-me makeup. But it makes me feel better. Do you understand? I dont think you do. See, I have all these horrible problems with myself. Theyre internal problems; problems with how I look, problems with how I act, problems with me.
If I cover myself up, maybe I can pretend the world will see me better; they might see who I want them to see. But more importantly, maybe Ill see who I wish I could be. I can fool myself sometimes, when Im lucky; and thats all that matters to me. Its borderline-obsessive, but I dont
Literature
52509
There is a note for me playing hide-and-go-seek
in between the wall and the hotel bed,
but the author is done playing
and driving home
because continuing after losing is too hard,
people are still breathing and posing for photographers,
popping balloons, asking for names or numbers
and living, and sometimes life would be
so much easier if they didnt,
if the world stopped the way a clock
doesnt tick after its dropped off a balcony,
lying there as a small jumble of twisted metal and wooden splinters,
a cracked face with fingerless hands
and all blessedly, gloriously still.
Literature
before
a little while ago
maybe a couple of months or something
i wasn't drinking ; instead i was
waking up to you
every morning you would stretch
and your spine would move and i felt it all over
your skin stretched into the sun and
i saw it everywhere
but guess what, that shit was gold and
gold doesn't last and you didn't last.
i got boring and you got mean.
and you're less of a gypsy and more of
a woman and i know if i called you up tonight
said hey baby come home
how did we get here baby i'm crying on the
floor drinking lime pepsi
and this goddamn pepsi is flat. so why don't
you come home. just for the night.
you would say you h
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um, yeah, you guys did an amazing job. great work!