|Life is cold here...|
Cleanse and PurifyCleanse and Purify by TheRainGirl
The grass seemed of a sickening color, something between green and blue, difficult to distinct the actual shade as it swayed in the non-existent breeze. Countless little shinings and faint shimmers floated just above it emitting a strange pulse of energy.
Lucian was on his knees, gasping for air. The weapon of his formidable enemy was sharp enough to tear his leather boot and rip off his Achilles tendon. It was impossible for him to stand. Still, not for a single moment did he worry about his own situation. Not as long as she was still fighting a fight that they both knew was already over. Senna was standing tall, firmly holding her gun with both her hands. She was stronger than him. His hands were trembling.
"Accept it, you have already lost." an otherworldly voice echoed. Thresh was standing right across the field, not far from the two partners. Lucian could feel his dark aura, consisted only of death and sheer terror.
hushi'm done wishing
on shooting stars, and
i want to be done with you:
i'll let dust settle
on my telescope,
let dust settle in
my throat, my lungs.
twist your fingers through
my vocal cords,
press your palm to
my lips and tell me, hush
don't wish on things
falling too fast
to hear you
maybe i'll wish
they are quiet houses
for muted ghosts, though
more alive than you
have ever been.
i'll let you
pull me under,
paint my eyes
with salt, blind me
so you can murmur, shh
even dead things
can be beautiful
Letters to all the people I have kissedi. Rob
I expected a knight in shining armour but you were
just a boy, just a boy.
you flirted and you teased and you kissed me
at midnight on new year’s eve and set the tone
for that whole god-forsaken year.
I could taste lies on your tongue and doubt in your fingers;
you said you were a taurus but you were gemini all over.
friends shouldn’t kiss in the kitchen and
friends shouldn’t drink gin together and
friends shouldn’t cry, drunk on misery, and
friends shouldn’t break another friend’s heart and
I’m still sorry.
I expected just a boy but you were
a knight in shining armour, silver to the pretty
ivory teeth, who was looking for a damsel and found
only don quixote, tilting at windmills and refusing
to be saved.
we were drunk and you were more beautiful
under the harsh car park lights than I had noticed before
and you were mid-sentence and I was mid-hiccup and
we still laugh about it now.
Birth MarkedGrandpa used to tell stories
about the night I was born,
said a lost sparrow with cockeyed feathers
hopped across my right shoulder
and left its mark.
Shifting the sheaf of hair
mom refused to cut short
and craning my neck,
I could just see the cluster
of sharp-edged W's etched like tattoos
across the scalloped scoop of my bones.
In summer heat waves,
I learned to weave my dark tangles into braids
and let the claw strokes breathe,
the thin straps of feather-print shirts
pushed out of the way.
On those days,
Grandpa claimed I could lift my arms, wing-like,
and fly myself into something new.
though the sun is high
and summer nears again,
Grandpa is gone
and I am weighted by dark moods
and black mascara.
Standing at his graveside,
I tell him stories about the parts of him I miss
and the parts of me I hate
but cannot change;
the parts I was born into.
A phantom breeze clutches
the fresh bob of my wayward hair
and for a moment,
I can feel his work-calloused fingers
i will rest by the river and bloomi have eaten so many cherries i have lost count,
my fingers bundled up with their stems, my teeth aching.
with the fruit flesh still threaded around them, the seeds
look like little organs, little stone hearts:
i eat them all, every one. maybe they will hatch in my stomach
like bitter eggs, and a thousand hundred giant trees will
grow slowly though my bones and my bloodstream, maybe they will
burst up and out through my mouth. i will be a bleeding flowerpot,
a forest floor with shoes, an incubator. i will be the zombie
apocalypse of cherry trees. i will grow my wooden teeth through the roof.
my bad decisions will touch the sky.
Bully You're ugly.
You'll never amount to anything.
No one will ever like you.
If you think he'll stay, you're mistaken.
You have no friends.
People hate you.
You are a freak.
You have no place here.
You are nothing more than a coward who
is too afraid to step outside half the time.
Your face is like something from a horror movie.
No one will ever truly fall in love with you.
Guys want girls that are beautiful and face it,
you are considered everything but that.
Hide behind your hair dye because you want to
feign like you don't care.
But inside the cruel eyes of others burn holes into
You will never amount to anything.
The only thing you will ever be good for
is cleaning up dog shit.
You will never be good enough.
Why bother even dreaming?
How can you consider the possibility of love
when everything you do, the way you look, walk,
talk, move, think, can only ever be seen as
Not only is the outside hideous;
the inside is no better.
Why do you think you've
IntensityCoffee: two creams, one sugar, one Sweet 'n' low. Pancakes: short stack. Side of bacon. Every Tuesday and Thursday. 9am.
The order never changed, though sometimes he would ask for extra syrup, but it was only on the mornings when he came in with unkempt hair and stubble on his high-boned, ruddy cheeks. Those were the rough mornings, the mornings when caloric intake was not on his mind. They weren't often: he was usually very meticulous. Only the occasional day would arise when you could tell the morning had not gone as it should have. My heart ached for him on these days.
He only ever came on Tuesday and Thursday: he didn't have to be in the office (he worked for a mortgage company) until 10am on those days, instead of the usual 9 o'clock. He took the extra hour to have a proper breakfast, even if there were days when he clearly could have spent more time on his morning hygiene practices rather than rushing to a diner. The vainer part of myself thought that he always showed up for me,
asylumI have lines to cross
and skeletons to shatter,
because halted mercy
resides in these hands.
But I will not
show mercy with you.
Today is painted
with pinstripes and broken
nails, it is when
you decide I am
good enough to be
But I made myself worse,
when I was with you.
HateI really hate the way she lies. She says she’ll listen, but she won’t. She promises she’ll be there, but she isn’t. She tells me it wasn’t her, but it was. I don’t hate her you know. I just hate everything she is, everything she does. Her smug smile. Her mud brown hair. Her green eyes with a drop of evil. The way she knows how to hurt me. The way she can make me cry. The way she likes it. She knows me too well. She knows how to hurt me. Knowledge is power and power corrupts. She’s the most corrupt person I know.
But I can’t hate her; not entirely. After all, hating yourself isn’t healthy.
A Letter to MozartI have a confession to make.
I think we should break up.
Don’t get me wrong, you are a collection of stars. Every time I hear that little night music I look up in the sky and I see your magnificent constellation shining ever-so-bright down upon me. I am so thankful for our little infinity, but I just can't see this working out.
Anyone with eyes could see what a distinguished composer you are. What with your sumptuous symphonies and celebratory sonatas, you are a heartthrob; oh, what I would give to have you tickle my ivories if even just once. But you see, I think I’ve had enough of your distasteful dissonance. All that’s left between us are aggravating augmentations and catastrophic cadenzas.
I wish that I could taste our mellifluous melodic memories one last time. Last I remember we shared such a charming concerto; now all I’m left with is a wasteful waltz. What happened to those fantastic fantasias we were always dreaming of?
We used to have such grace and su