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Literature Text
it is two fifty-eight in the morning. i wake up with
your image slipping away from behind my eyelids
to discover that my face is experiencing an uncomfortable
combination of clammy and dirty as a result of dried, caked
salt-tears streaked by a fresh flow, which is also spilling
into my hair and pillow. i wipe my skin fresh and return to bed,
succumbing to a numb, fitful, dreamless sleep.
it is the fourth night in a row that this has happened.
i would tell you how i feel about you, but my brain is
too fried to process the concept of love. you are the
electric jolt dancing up and down my nervous system,
sending the axioms jumping, mingling, colliding
in a frenzy, like a floundering school of fish caught in
a net. all that i wait for is for the furious crimsons and
flash-white lightning to die into dull grey static
that whines in the space between my ears.
and when i've muffled my lone goose cries down to the
murmur of the pigeon's coos, i will cover my ears
in hopes of silence, but as they always have,
the traces of your presence will disallow me that relief.
geese mate for life. i just chose a duck.
your image slipping away from behind my eyelids
to discover that my face is experiencing an uncomfortable
combination of clammy and dirty as a result of dried, caked
salt-tears streaked by a fresh flow, which is also spilling
into my hair and pillow. i wipe my skin fresh and return to bed,
succumbing to a numb, fitful, dreamless sleep.
it is the fourth night in a row that this has happened.
i would tell you how i feel about you, but my brain is
too fried to process the concept of love. you are the
electric jolt dancing up and down my nervous system,
sending the axioms jumping, mingling, colliding
in a frenzy, like a floundering school of fish caught in
a net. all that i wait for is for the furious crimsons and
flash-white lightning to die into dull grey static
that whines in the space between my ears.
and when i've muffled my lone goose cries down to the
murmur of the pigeon's coos, i will cover my ears
in hopes of silence, but as they always have,
the traces of your presence will disallow me that relief.
geese mate for life. i just chose a duck.
Literature
you are a lost cause.
you are a lost cause.
i am a liar.
and we are a decrepit house
in the richest street,
of the richest city,
in the richest country.
i resent the fact that i'm lying to myself being in your vicinity.
the fact i have a different set of voices just for talking to you.
and the fact that to even look at you,
i have to at least
pretend i don't want to pretend anymore.
Literature
Letters To a Loved One
You left me with a letter, and your body empty on the floor.
I dont know how to look at you any more.
I dont know how to speak.
Behind my eyes youre tattooed in living ink
a broken lullaby, a hated memory.
I cant sleep with the thoughts, the wonderings.
Im afraid to leave you alone in the house.
(You could do it again. And this time )
...
You didnt read between the lines.
My hand trembled over those words I spoke the truth,
and you missed it.
You couldnt hear; you couldnt see my voice.
In every dream Im drowning.
Please.
Find the strength to
Literature
letter to a psych somewhere
after my mother told me i would be getting a shrink, i daydreamed of all the things i would tell you about myself, how i am sometimes irreparably lonely and how on long car trips i sometimes stay awake for periods of time training my eyes to be unfocused over the white lines on interstate highways, or i sleep with my feet tucked underneath the floorboard carpets, or i read kurt vonnegut novels. after my mother told me she wanted me to talk to someone, i panicked.
here are some things you should know about me: i memorise poetry for fun. i would have an entire vonnegut novel engraved on my tombstone if it would fit. i am good at lying to oth
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I SWEAR THIS IS NOT ME. it is the girl living inside my head. she doesn't think it's too comfortable there.
dear boy,
things would be so much easier if you helped me put everything to an end and gave me hurtful words so that i would never write these pieces again. ever.
dear boy,
things would be so much easier if you helped me put everything to an end and gave me hurtful words so that i would never write these pieces again. ever.
© 2009 - 2024 crazysingergirl
Comments33
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WOW. That was really good. I never knew this was a side of you. I'm sorry though, about WHY you write these. But very good!