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Literature Text
dear cirrus boy
i'm not going to pretend that i understand or even have an empty hand for you to hold on to; i've stopped lying now, like you wanted me to. i understand nothing, to be sincere, but starting from the beginning would be foolish, as it all originated from the end.
the end.
i never understood how your mother could leave you without a goodbye; from what you told me, she even missed out on hello. and i don't understand how you didn't cry when she told you that her tumor was outgrowing her heart, but that it never would outgrow you. i would have shed tears in the hope of them dying and getting reborn into something stronger; anything that didn't spell cancer. when the first prognosis came, you were panting harder than your chest could bear. and i remember i couldn't hear if you were laughing or trying to suppress tears, but i knew that inside you were a wounded animal.
but a compass will only lead us north
the signs were obvious, and you were a blind guider without a direction. i remember that june evening when i first spoke to you; i told you not to stare too hard at the sun. do you realize now, that that's not how to get brighter times?
the day clouds sank faster than lead
the water rippled before the wave crashed - i feel like we've got it all backwards.
love,
the sunshine that passed through everything but you
i'm not going to pretend that i understand or even have an empty hand for you to hold on to; i've stopped lying now, like you wanted me to. i understand nothing, to be sincere, but starting from the beginning would be foolish, as it all originated from the end.
the end.
i never understood how your mother could leave you without a goodbye; from what you told me, she even missed out on hello. and i don't understand how you didn't cry when she told you that her tumor was outgrowing her heart, but that it never would outgrow you. i would have shed tears in the hope of them dying and getting reborn into something stronger; anything that didn't spell cancer. when the first prognosis came, you were panting harder than your chest could bear. and i remember i couldn't hear if you were laughing or trying to suppress tears, but i knew that inside you were a wounded animal.
but a compass will only lead us north
the signs were obvious, and you were a blind guider without a direction. i remember that june evening when i first spoke to you; i told you not to stare too hard at the sun. do you realize now, that that's not how to get brighter times?
the day clouds sank faster than lead
the water rippled before the wave crashed - i feel like we've got it all backwards.
love,
the sunshine that passed through everything but you
Literature
tellurian boy.
you remind me of fast cars chasing the night endlessly. and the way in which i used to veer away from the light of daunting lampposts. it seemed so phantasmagorical. i preferred the glow of the sun as it fell across your perching cheekbones and one, two, three, seven freckles that bordered your smile. this was always better than the rush of speed, or the aroma of cheap whisky that followed you like a strange, obscure shadow. they whispered that it was a pity that you never noticed, a pity that you never cared. yet I was never troubled by it - I liked the taste of foreign liquid as it paraded across the tender veil of your lips. it reminded me
Literature
boy who bleeds elephant tusks
so you know how sometimes
a voice tells you that you need
me? you know how you always
avoid it? I think tonight you should
follow the direction of the crazy voice
and see where you end up.
it's 10:43 p.m. and i'm eating leftover
pizza and listening to kissing families
by silversun pickups. I've spent the whole
day braless, but just the last ten
minutes heartless. I did not feel sorry
for the toilet when i shoved a plunger
down its throat, because I pretended
it was you.
there are lies stuck between my teeth
and I am bored so I'm going to floss and
distribute them to people like you.
I am sucking pity through a straw
be
Literature
Boy.
He has skin like dusk. The blue that comes right before the black. Skin like water in a dark cave and veins like grapes and blood that pulsed beneath his surface like blackberry juice. As a whole he looked like a gem; an alien carved from the stones beneath the Earth with fingers that reached and stretched like emaciated, black trees. Eyes like balls of white cream. Irises of November orange. Teeth of marshmallow squares. Raspberry tongue. Oil slick hair.
He lives on an island that represents royalty and reflects politeness. A blue and red flag. Warm drinks in the afternoon for calmness. His blueberry skin stands out against the dishwater cl
Suggested Collections
cirrus - type of cloud that [normally] lets sunlight through.
fiction or non-fiction? somewhere in between.
i'm also wondering why there is life stories but not death stories. it's not clear to me.
my entry for [link]
fiction or non-fiction? somewhere in between.
i'm also wondering why there is life stories but not death stories. it's not clear to me.
my entry for [link]
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i saw this in the box on Miss-Deathwish's page, and i have to say i'm very glad i've stumbled upon you. you're wonderful.