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Literature Text
You walk in the room looking so perfect
the most beautiful lie in my life
wheat gold hair curled around an angels face
porcelain skin glowing, pale and smooth
lip stick smile painted between two rouged cheeks
full red lips a marriage of seduction and innocence
every step you take is cloud supported, effortless, graceful
but the sad truth lies in your clear, cornflower blue eyes
the most beautiful lie in my life
wheat gold hair curled around an angels face
porcelain skin glowing, pale and smooth
lip stick smile painted between two rouged cheeks
full red lips a marriage of seduction and innocence
every step you take is cloud supported, effortless, graceful
but the sad truth lies in your clear, cornflower blue eyes
Literature
wednesday's child
it is the third of october
and i am building a castle for us
out of feathers, bird bones,
ocean waves and library book pages.
anything to keep our feet from
touching the ground.
you are sin, he whispers
and his fingers trail cold fire
down my side, scorching flesh
and freezing bone;
brittle pieces of me shatter
as they hit the stained linoleum floor.
don't wake me from this nightmare.
i whisper a nursery rhyme
as i walk down our
autumn path.
kamikaze leaves fall, trailing
fire as they throw themselves from
the branches, down, down,
to cold pavement below.
your words echo in my mind
a constant reminder
that i am sin
but you,
you were
ne
Literature
Accept your Candle, Weep for the Stars
A light I see, far off in the distance. It's a star, I told myself.
No other thought surpassed it, I want to reach it.
I struggle in the darkness, slowly heading for it, not knowing, not thinking.
I know this is what I want. I want the star.
It gets brighter, I can feel its warm touch, though I'm far from it.
Joy overwhelms my soul, I'm so close, so close to
my star. It's my star and nothing else matters.
I reach with my fingers, to touch it.
A candle. A lowly candle, my thoughts shattered.
This is not what I wanted. It's not my star.
I blink, and blink again, I see clearly. Up above.
There are hundreds, no millions of stars.
Why
Literature
Divorce
Before that day,
Sunday mornings had never occurred to me.
I must have slept through their every summons:
I never knew the time sensitive ritual of finding matching socks,
forcing “nice” shoes over misshapen toes,
the silent pact we would share with the warm cushions of the divan
waiting for Mother to ready us, memories that settle in the guts
like a madstone, which I could then pull out of my old cadaver
to save myself in the next life.
There were a few moments. Like that time, in the garage,
basking in Father’s sunrise sorcery as he fired his magic timing light
into the fluttering lungs of an engine, or when he let
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although it took me long enough to notice it...I still love comments, both good and bad.
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Comments3
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Ooph- This starts out as a sweet little thing and ends up being a punch in the gut. She must be a real piece of work.