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Literature Text
My version of winter has always been flawed. It is controlled by the fall of snow and the exact amount of the ground it covers. It never ever covers the tiny little patch in the garden, right near the broken tin roofed shed. I suppose that is why I just like the idea of snow. But I do not love it.
(Realisation: I suppose that little corner represents the only part of me that even I cannot love.)
I met a man with candle lit wolf eyes and a strong, warm lion heart, who tells me Sea God stories before disappearing into a cold, cold winter's morning, fog cloaking his very essence.
(Addendum: Sometimes I think of five a.m. coffee, and wonder if your smile didn't hold all of winter's warmth in it, whether I would still be liking the idea of it.)
He lights candles and turns my room into a place of sanctity and prayer often. It makes the love making ironic in a way, I suppose. But nothing he ever does fails to intrigue the very fabric that my cotton soul is made of.
(Observation: His body is my temple, his hands my place of prayer. He treats me like a high priestess, sometimes his queen, and sometimes...as nothing at all.)
On a day when I was breaking into pieces of me, he took my hands, and promised me a forever made of windows of snow, winter and candles, the kind of winter candles that never ever die out when placed on windowsills.
I looked into his eyes and explained to him how forever was winter proof, that candles die, oh and just so he knew, "Minds like mine are glasshouses that can defeat even the most beautiful of snowstorms."
(Apologies: I am going to give you a bat, my darling. Here is my glasshouse.
Now then. Start smashing.)
(Realisation: I suppose that little corner represents the only part of me that even I cannot love.)
I met a man with candle lit wolf eyes and a strong, warm lion heart, who tells me Sea God stories before disappearing into a cold, cold winter's morning, fog cloaking his very essence.
(Addendum: Sometimes I think of five a.m. coffee, and wonder if your smile didn't hold all of winter's warmth in it, whether I would still be liking the idea of it.)
He lights candles and turns my room into a place of sanctity and prayer often. It makes the love making ironic in a way, I suppose. But nothing he ever does fails to intrigue the very fabric that my cotton soul is made of.
(Observation: His body is my temple, his hands my place of prayer. He treats me like a high priestess, sometimes his queen, and sometimes...as nothing at all.)
On a day when I was breaking into pieces of me, he took my hands, and promised me a forever made of windows of snow, winter and candles, the kind of winter candles that never ever die out when placed on windowsills.
I looked into his eyes and explained to him how forever was winter proof, that candles die, oh and just so he knew, "Minds like mine are glasshouses that can defeat even the most beautiful of snowstorms."
(Apologies: I am going to give you a bat, my darling. Here is my glasshouse.
Now then. Start smashing.)
Literature
Hope
Hope:
She waits for him
at the gates that stood when even the world crumbled
She sighs
knowing that her own name will soon be forgotten
Where once she carried the weight of the world
now her strength is but the tiniest whisper
A single spark, left to crackle amongst the shades
until all is lost in the endless folds of time
It's getting colder
though she still continues to stand by the gates
She is getting older
and thus her memories must fade...
Angels gather to watch her in these final moments
and they bow their heads as a sign of respect
For even now, as the life leaves her body
Still she continues to wait...
-Chen Yuan Wen
Literature
Storybook Ending
Her ink-stained lips have kissed too many a forgotten page,
[dragon's blood
and phoenix down]
And her Prince Charming has yet to come,
[glass slippers
shattering like stars]
So all she can do is gaze out her tower window,
[enchanted forests
concealing poisoned apples]
Clutch that corroded and timeworn blade,
[cursed beasts
tearing down castle walls]
Toss her childhood fables to the waltzing of the moon,
Literature
Her Muse
these words are not poetry
swimming liquid fire through ashes
of dead phoenix veins.
no, they are rough and callused
with over use, their own faithless artists
spewing black tar from their lungs
in the hopes to one day breathe again.
nothing moves her.
she would rather scribble her heart out
on physical manifestations of her own reality-
on skin and bones she worships like a temple.
"Write of me," he says, "right here."-
planting sun-stricken kisses
along the hollow of her burning throat.
"I want to be where your heart sleeps."
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I am sorry, my K. I don't mean to lash out or hurt anyone, least of all you. I am just damaged and that is the work of the demons who hurt me before I met you, my Knight. It doesn't mean I don't love you. It means I am scared to give myself completely to the idea that someone loves me as much as I love him.
This is the best way I know to say sorry. This is the only way I know how to say sorry.
I love you.
This is the best way I know to say sorry. This is the only way I know how to say sorry.
I love you.
(I promise I am trying to be back as soon as I can. I promise I always will love you. I promise you a home, children and a beautiful marriage. And I always keep my promises.)
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I teared up a little bit, reading this.