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Literature Text
“I have issues.”
“That’s a revelation.”
“No. Seriously. I have issues.”
“All right. I’ll bite. What’s going on?”
“I don’t think I’m ever going to find someone who’ll love me.”
"..."
“What? Why're you looking at me like that?”
“You aren’t serious, right?”
“I am glad my pain makes you so incredulous.”
“All right, let me try this again. If you can't find someone who loves you, who am I to you?”
“You’re-”
“Don’t answer that. That was rhetorical. I am the girl who spends hours huddled in a corner of a library, trying to find what you love the most about Marlowe, just so I can write you a poem worthy of Shakespeare. I’ve made books my lovers, hours my enemies and you the only story.”
“You do that for-”
“I am the girl who will split her fingers in two and let the ink fall on pages and pages, just so I can paint you a review. All this just so it may make more sense to you, than that art teacher who disregards your Rubenesque, Rembrandt inspired paintings everyday. And I don’t even like classical art.”
“Why-”
“I am the girl that has watched you break her, over and over and over again, but I am still here. My wrists are thinner, my spine arched in burden of the unspoken and the fact that I am terrified to touch an instrument anymore, simply because you hate the idea of a song that is about heartbreak. And heartbreak is all I can write about.”
“Why are you telling me this now?”
“Because I am done being in love with you.”
“Why?”
“I am in love with someone else. Someone who needs it more than you.”
“Who?!”
“Me.”
“That’s a revelation.”
“No. Seriously. I have issues.”
“All right. I’ll bite. What’s going on?”
“I don’t think I’m ever going to find someone who’ll love me.”
"..."
“What? Why're you looking at me like that?”
“You aren’t serious, right?”
“I am glad my pain makes you so incredulous.”
“All right, let me try this again. If you can't find someone who loves you, who am I to you?”
“You’re-”
“Don’t answer that. That was rhetorical. I am the girl who spends hours huddled in a corner of a library, trying to find what you love the most about Marlowe, just so I can write you a poem worthy of Shakespeare. I’ve made books my lovers, hours my enemies and you the only story.”
“You do that for-”
“I am the girl who will split her fingers in two and let the ink fall on pages and pages, just so I can paint you a review. All this just so it may make more sense to you, than that art teacher who disregards your Rubenesque, Rembrandt inspired paintings everyday. And I don’t even like classical art.”
“Why-”
“I am the girl that has watched you break her, over and over and over again, but I am still here. My wrists are thinner, my spine arched in burden of the unspoken and the fact that I am terrified to touch an instrument anymore, simply because you hate the idea of a song that is about heartbreak. And heartbreak is all I can write about.”
“Why are you telling me this now?”
“Because I am done being in love with you.”
“Why?”
“I am in love with someone else. Someone who needs it more than you.”
“Who?!”
“Me.”
Literature
R.I.P.
Did anyone notice that she winced if you raised your arm?
Did anyone notice that her eyes were wide with alarm?
Did anyone notice that she never looked you in the eye?
Did anyone notice that her voice was but a sigh?
Did anyone notice that her skin was always bruised?
Did anyone question whether she might be abused?
Did anyone question why she walked in obvious fear?
Did anyone question why one day she did not appear?
Did anyone recognize her face on the six-o’clock news?
Did anyone see her remains pulled from the river refuse?
Did anyone care that this quiet girl no longer exists?
No. No one did. And she will never even be missed.
R.I
Literature
To be a writer
You taste like decaying leaves
and October's bad habits-
when it’s halfway through February
that still haunts these bones.
I have allowed you to
claw your love
into my arms
and chant into my
uninterested ears
for much too long.
I wish I was one of those girls
who could say wild flowers
grow up through my nooks
and my crannies just to tear
through my skin, screaming.
I’m just that dead eyed deer
on the side of the road dreaming
of shoving a pen down my throat
and writing these verses inside out.
I am no scribe, prophet, or spell caster.
I know it.
My skin knows it.
My pen knows it too.
Years and years
from now
my mind will d
Literature
Poets have the loneliest hearts.
I drink morphine
like peach tea;
down 6 pills by morning
just to keep my mind
filled up
with nothing.
& I know I can go days
without speaking a word
but-
I want a moon shy girl
with wolves at her back,
bite mark ankles &
a bottle of writer’s tears
tucked under one arm.
I want to be end of the war
kisses bruised into her hipbones;
the epilogue written over her
tiger-striped skin.
With these wisteria limbs
February cold, &
these weak lungs
exhaling coralline whispers,
I’ve got a tongue for words
but still have no idea how to love
a universe girl.
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Love yourself enough to have self respect. Boyfriends and girlfriends comes second after your self respect and confidence.
Another old piece. I am fine...just need to let some stuff out. Sometimes you remember things that make you angry. This was written in a moment of anger.
Another old piece. I am fine...just need to let some stuff out. Sometimes you remember things that make you angry. This was written in a moment of anger.
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I find it hard to sympathize with this person (I'll call them X). They claim to love this other person (I'll call them Y), but their response to Y opening up about their fears and insecurities is to get angry at them, which isn't a good look. Not only that, but their anger is about Y not seeing something that X wasn't letting them see in the first place. How is it Y's fault that X was being secretive? This is clearly written so that we'll sympathize with X, but I find myself sympathizing with Y instead.