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Literature Text
I am crying as I fall into sleep. the sound of bruises rushing from the inside to the outside of my skin is loud enough to wake me. there are fingers on my lips, prying me open- oh my, lips whispering that I am scared to death.
staring into the headlights is like being in a room where everything is white and you close your eyes and it's still white and you're doing nothing but breathing and it's beautiful because you're alive but you're not thinking. you're alive but you're not thinking because your brain is full of nothing. it's beautiful.
I stare.
I breathe.
I think.
I cry.
I sleep.
I wake again, shivering and curled up on the floor. my legs hurt my shoulders hurt my head hurts. the walls are sinking in and going back out again repeatedly. closing my eyes does not eliminate the pictures. the thick photographs flooding my head- the images like running film- dripping on me like ghost fingers.
sounds coming from cracks in the ceiling, from the floor, from the bed are lifting and rising over my body. they are blue, they are purple, they are yellow, they are red, and they are coming closer and holding me down. it's loud and I have to close my eyes because it hurts but I feel nothing and it's bright but it's dark at the same time. the sounds are crawling on me, dwelling in me. I itch and I pull my hair.
I am holding my hands in front of my face, trying to keep them as still as I can, but they won't stop shaking. I sit on my hands because they are assholes and I cannot trust them, but they still reach out to grab me. my legs are shaking my head is shaking.
I am shaking cold.
I am shaking still.
my eyelids fall and my body follows. the floor is cold as the sounds fade into the holes they came from.
the lights flicker and I am gone.
staring into the headlights is like being in a room where everything is white and you close your eyes and it's still white and you're doing nothing but breathing and it's beautiful because you're alive but you're not thinking. you're alive but you're not thinking because your brain is full of nothing. it's beautiful.
I stare.
I breathe.
I think.
I cry.
I sleep.
I wake again, shivering and curled up on the floor. my legs hurt my shoulders hurt my head hurts. the walls are sinking in and going back out again repeatedly. closing my eyes does not eliminate the pictures. the thick photographs flooding my head- the images like running film- dripping on me like ghost fingers.
sounds coming from cracks in the ceiling, from the floor, from the bed are lifting and rising over my body. they are blue, they are purple, they are yellow, they are red, and they are coming closer and holding me down. it's loud and I have to close my eyes because it hurts but I feel nothing and it's bright but it's dark at the same time. the sounds are crawling on me, dwelling in me. I itch and I pull my hair.
I am holding my hands in front of my face, trying to keep them as still as I can, but they won't stop shaking. I sit on my hands because they are assholes and I cannot trust them, but they still reach out to grab me. my legs are shaking my head is shaking.
I am shaking cold.
I am shaking still.
my eyelids fall and my body follows. the floor is cold as the sounds fade into the holes they came from.
the lights flicker and I am gone.
Literature
constellations named after you
This solar system will self-destruct in...
FIVE)
i'm planning my exit strategy
four hours ahead, just for it to
fail and fall in the cracks of the
ground; sinking, six feet under,
just let earth swallow me alive!
i promise not to scream or cry,
but promises might as well be
broken if the owner's heart is.
FOUR)
it's a common misconception
that i was born in a planetarium,
so let me clarify:
one misguided prediction
a simple misrepresentation
or flawed communication,
can eclipse common sense.
our universes are imploding
and my bones are exploding
and i'm out of empathy fuel.
THREE)
i'd eat every star in this forged
Literature
who will you be tomorrow, love
some days,
you are a curious girl
--the most curious one
in the world, in fact.
on these days,
you would fuck the storm
to deliver me an umbrella
some days,
all you want is
for pangaea to reform,
for x to equal y,
for us to be miscible,
and for everyone else
to fuck off
and on these days,
you hate your body
for not being right,
but i fucking love you
in spite of the flaws
you don't really have.
i like the days best,
when you're on my bed
and you want me on yours.
these days,
you're more beautiful than ever,
prettier than a fucking rainbow.
but you must realize
how hard that is,
how hard i am,
considering the situa
Literature
why all psychics are cheaters:
loving you--
battleship with a
mind reader:
my missiles
always miss you; i
miss you more.
you win
why do i
play games i know i'll
always lose ?
probably
because i'm playing
against you
Suggested Collections
inspired pretty much by the whole book a million little pieces by james frey. if you've read it/ do read it, you'll see pretty much where my inspirations came from.
© 2010 - 2024 Awasteof-paint
Comments34
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the thick photographs flooding my head- the images like running film- dripping on me like ghost fingers.
mmmm.
mmmm.