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Literature Text
i. She has never felt the lips of another on her own.
but she has felt yours.
ii. Her hands are empty, never intertwined with another.
yet she is always holding yours.
iii. Every thought that comes to mind must be filtered through,
as if a gas mask had been screwed into her bloody lips.
her words are all censored around you.
iv. Your scent is everywhere she is.
you leave your clothes on every surface.
v. Her heart is bursting, threatening to explode.
and yet her ribcage is intact, and her breathing is shallow.
Stop playing games with me.
but she has felt yours.
ii. Her hands are empty, never intertwined with another.
yet she is always holding yours.
iii. Every thought that comes to mind must be filtered through,
as if a gas mask had been screwed into her bloody lips.
her words are all censored around you.
iv. Your scent is everywhere she is.
you leave your clothes on every surface.
v. Her heart is bursting, threatening to explode.
and yet her ribcage is intact, and her breathing is shallow.
Stop playing games with me.
Literature
Birds in flight.
She says I'm a bird, but I know she loves to fly
as we're soaring down the freeway,
ending our adventure and migrating back
to our own worn out homes.
Now we're driving through cities
that died before we were born
and watching men without faces
retrace their footsteps through the cold.
The sun's been gone for months
but the darkness is just beginning
to taste the edges of the sky
and lights are streaming by
above boarded up windows and weather-faded signs.
The roads branch out and the men trudge on
with hands in their pockets and snow in their shoes
and head bent low like crows in the morning.
What is there left
Literature
mirages.
he's a beautiful boy dressed as a nightmare, and he manages to lull everyone into his eyes. tendrils of blood trail after his delicate fingers, and he says he can be taken higher than ever. he holds you as gently as possible, and his skin silently burns alongside yours. something about his kisses tastes not quite right, but when he presses his red, red lips harder against yours, you can't quite focus.
he paints mirages of broken legs and collapsed hearts, draws suns of forgotten dreams and fearsome pulsations. because somehow, he doesn't survive, doesn't live through storms of fire, doesn't end up seeing the light of day. he scratches at the
Literature
not charm or up...
when you left
i poured fireflies
down my throat
to burn away
your lips' echoes
but all it did was make them spin
like ballistic quarks
reversing creation
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I really need to lay of The Veronicas.
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I know it's vague and at the end of my thought train, but I needed to upload something.
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I know it's vague and at the end of my thought train, but I needed to upload something.
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Comments3
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It is vague, true, but it's an interesting vague. You've got some really beautiful sentences in there, love.