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Literature Text
Emily needs the words to understand that she isn't being unreasonable. She just wants them to mean something and not be a string of words which flows into itself over and over again.
She doesn't like her name either. Not because Emily isn't a pretty name but because she would rather be called something she feels like. (She has never quite forgiven her parents for choosing her name for her.) If she could, she would call herself Glass, because that is what she wakes up feeling like every morning. As if crystallised pieces of glass are edible and her insides tingle as she swallows them whole.
Emily lets the words call her names sometimes. She writes them on her knees so that she can remember them. Sometimes the words call her a whore, and sometimes stupid, and sometimes a loser and sometimes a tramp (She has never learnt that loving too much is a crime and boys with pretty eyes sometimes lie.). She sits in the bathroom with a pen the colour of blood and writes them carefully so that the next day's shower can't wash them away completely.
Emily is like Glass. She likes the way the words cut into her skin and leave their impressions on her heart. People have slipped and let her fall again and again. But she still wakes up in the morning and superglues herself back together.
The trouble with superglue is you will always see the cracks (Because we all know that broken glass can never ever really be whole again.)
She doesn't like her name either. Not because Emily isn't a pretty name but because she would rather be called something she feels like. (She has never quite forgiven her parents for choosing her name for her.) If she could, she would call herself Glass, because that is what she wakes up feeling like every morning. As if crystallised pieces of glass are edible and her insides tingle as she swallows them whole.
Emily lets the words call her names sometimes. She writes them on her knees so that she can remember them. Sometimes the words call her a whore, and sometimes stupid, and sometimes a loser and sometimes a tramp (She has never learnt that loving too much is a crime and boys with pretty eyes sometimes lie.). She sits in the bathroom with a pen the colour of blood and writes them carefully so that the next day's shower can't wash them away completely.
Emily is like Glass. She likes the way the words cut into her skin and leave their impressions on her heart. People have slipped and let her fall again and again. But she still wakes up in the morning and superglues herself back together.
The trouble with superglue is you will always see the cracks (Because we all know that broken glass can never ever really be whole again.)
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
The Flower of Evil
The Flower of Evil:
Evil is but a blooming flower,
Alluring, captivating.
It is born from a humble seed
And grows to corrupt a forest.
To watch its infection spread;
To be a part of its existence...
I can think of no better prospect,
Can you?
Indeed one might baulk at the idea,
Of seeing millions suffer.
To watch worlds scream and writhe;
To see them suffer and die, with living eyes...
Yet there is a mysterious beauty in such devastation,
Fear that shakes me to my very core;
Is transfigured into a twisted pleasure:
As I am frightened, so too am I aroused.
I am addicted to the ephemeral sensation;
To the borderline between rapture and rup
Literature
Necromancy
She thinks there are nebulae
in the rough of my gutter bones,
some stargazing sanctuary
for lonely outcasts to lay their heads.
I am but a car crash,
spellbound
inside eyelids,
& red inked corrections
on crosshatched skin.
Made up of moans,
the clutching of bedsheets;
I am contemplating
ripping my ribs apart
& proving
I never had a heart at all.
But my moon shy love;
she is determined
to try & wake the dead.
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Looking forwards and looking back.
Sometimes our pasts come back to haunt us. Sometimes they never ever leave.
Sometimes our pasts come back to haunt us. Sometimes they never ever leave.
It's all right to be broken sometimes...even if everyone else tells you it is not.
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this is powerful because it is so unbelievably tender. "words i would and have told others with sincerity but could never imagine having for myself - even when there were a few people actually saying them over the years". thank you.