"I miss you."
"I miss you, too."
"How long has it been?"
"Only a week. How's the internship?"
"Boring, but I'm learning a lot. I want to come home. I miss you."
"Is the weather in Phoenix nice?"
"No, it's too hot. I miss you."
"Are you having fun, at least?"
"Not really. I miss you."
"I miss you, too, but I thought we already established that."
"I know. It just...feels like half of my body is back home, sleeping in bed next to you."
"I just looked under the covers. Nothing's there, I promise."
"You know what I meant."
"You're right, I do. I'll let you in on a secret, though."
"Shoot."
"I'll be gone one day, and you'll be alone.
never trust a writer by neverwastewishes, literature
Literature
never trust a writer
It's best to stay far away from us writers. We're double-agents, and can't be trusted.
You see, we just have this terrible privilege of not being able to tell the difference between reality and fiction. We sometimes forget that the emotions in our head might not run with as much passion as they really do, and then we get disappointed in things that make normal people happy. We're afraid to get close to people, and yet all we do is yearn for human contact. That's why we write about it, and that's why we lose touch on what it really feels like to be in a relationship.
Writers often find that we don't fully comprehend the world around us, and,
why didn't you say goodbye? by Pretty-As-A-Picture, literature
Literature
why didn't you say goodbye?
Love wasnt in the air the night you unbuttoned my shirt and kissed my skin. No, love definitely wasnt in the air the night we spent in heat of moments, sweating and tumbling and fumbling on your fathers bed.
It was anywhere but there. Does love go on vacation? I ponder and make fleshy butterflies from my outstretched fingers. Probably.
I cant remember much but I can remember the beginning. The burn of acid bleeding and gushing past my tongue and down my throat. The noises and then your silence. The clumsiness and then the awkward kisses.
You had a garden of dark hair growing from your scalp and dirt eyes. You had a
Life is like a box of crayons.
At birth, you're given a great big box of them to share and add color to your life.
Some colors get used more than others.
Sometimes, a crayon gets broken. A Bright color gets snapped in half and tossed in the garbage can, never to be returned. Sometimes you keep coloring. Sometimes you can't. That color was important.
Sometimes a crayon is gained, shared between two people. That color might be just perfect, and works great! Other times it's a different shade, but it will make do.
But, there is always one color left in the box.
Black.
It's normally unused until death. It's used to frame the picture. To ad
pretty boys break hearts. by Pretty-As-A-Picture, literature
Literature
pretty boys break hearts.
sometimes I think Im just a mess of badly drawn lines. Im just scrawled veins beneath paper rough skin, I wear poorly sketched scars on my thighs [skin deep red pen lines] and even my smile is lop-sided- but he never seemed to notice.
my skin [spread like thick icing over my skeleton] is a monotonous pattern of pores, a stretch of the world the sun never kissed. I cant see the beauty in multitudes of freckles and chipped fingernails- but he does.
why do you love me?
you make me happy.
I never could figure out just how. was it my illegible love notes, or the tiny hearts I drew into his bare back wi
you will be drawing circles in the sand when he finds you.
'why are you bothering to draw in the sand?' he'll ask. 'the waves will only wash your circles away.'
you'll finish the circle by writing love in the center, then you'll stand up to answer him, hair in your eyes from the wind and sand on your face.
'because maybe it won't get washed away,' you'll say. 'isn't it a chance worth taking?'
and instead of laughing at you like you expected, he'll smile. 'yes,' he'll say. 'oh, yes.'
--
you will be weak with lack of sleep, drowsy and stumbling, and he'll catch you before you run into the wall.
'go away,' you'll tell him. 'just go away.'
before, she would look at the stars and wonder if her someone was out there, somewhere, looking at the same ones. she'd dream of magic and flying and wishes that come true. she'd say tomorrow will be better, tomorrow will be better. and she hoped it would be.
silence didn't scare her back then. see, she was too busy looking at the clouds and comets to worry about the imperfections and the dangers of flying.
open doors didn't remind her of people leaving. they just reminded her of chances, risks worth taking. her heart sang a lullaby filled of hope and happiness and learning how to stand again, learning how to breathe. her heart still knew
My mother always told me I was born with four spines. They stay there, side by side, in my ramrod straight back, the reason for my very correct posture. So when my back began to arch, people noticed.
My parents were first. You look different, they would suppose as I would approach every morning for breakfast. Is something wrong? My mother would question. Are you ill? My father would ask.
I had a gift with the vague and I used it to my only advantage in this scenario. Because telling them the truth would be a lot more devastating. How would I tell them about the fact that my bones, my spine, the very part of me they admired most, was depreci
I was armed with half a deck of emotions, two thirds of a heart and eyes of a broken mirror that offered no protection to my soul. I wanted to talk about it often and whenever I needed to, the words would tangle in my mouth, come out as a compliment of a shirt, an idea that had no relevance, a conversation about the weather. I was eighteen. I wanted to be stronger, brilliant, bright like a comet in the sky. Instead, I learnt about how beds could be the most loathed places in the world, bathrooms were meant to be soaked in blood...and men with eyes like knives sometimes used them against people they loved.
I was armed with shards of strength,
Nothing Lives Forever by UntamedUnwanted, literature
Literature
Nothing Lives Forever
i.
When you were a child, we would sit on the porch to talk about your day. And sometimes, we would find a dead bird, or a frog on there. And you would ask me about death and why it happens, looking at the poor creature in my hands, its life cut short and touch it tenderly. I would always say the same thing.
Nothing is meant to live forever, my dear.
ii.
The school called me in on your twelfth birthday and asked if I had known how clever you were, that your test scores were the best in the state. They asked me if I knew I had a genius child on my hands who grew bored easily in class and tended to distract others in his classroom, sometime