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Literature Text
i. when i was little,
i would pick grass
and throw it in the wind
because i liked knowing
that i could destroy
something other than
myself.
ii. i’ve never made
a wish on my birthday
or on a shooting star
because i don’t know
what things
are worth wishing for.
iii. i tell people that
my favorite color is
ocean blue, cerulean blue,
but actually, it is
the color of your heart.
iv. there is always
something
missing.
i would pick grass
and throw it in the wind
because i liked knowing
that i could destroy
something other than
myself.
ii. i’ve never made
a wish on my birthday
or on a shooting star
because i don’t know
what things
are worth wishing for.
iii. i tell people that
my favorite color is
ocean blue, cerulean blue,
but actually, it is
the color of your heart.
iv. there is always
something
missing.
Literature
odd
i.
i am sick of writing about you but when i try to find something else i am more lost than ever. it disturbs me that you have become the centre of my expression because it makes you a thing that needs to be communicated, and it strikes me that perhaps i am doing all your communicating for you.
it is wrong. you need to learn how.
iii.
perhaps it is the part of you that resides within me that needs out, wants out; and so i am trying. i am purging you from the back of my eye, from the walls of my thought, from the clenched sphincter of my stomach and i am reading you in trails of spit that cling to the
Literature
Count to ten.
She was the girl in the waterwings, pretending she was flying through waves rather than barely staying afloat. Everyone always thought she was drowning, and how they cried for her, thinking she wouldn't be at the lake gasping for breath the next day. And every time she would dive under only to crash in with the tide, 10 seconds later.
"I wasn't drowning, she would say, "I just wanted to know what it feels like to be so close to death, yet still hopeful. I'm not scared anymore, and you shouldn't be either."
-
They say every Monday morning, they would find her sprawled on the ground, limbs bent at unnatural angles, skin bearing contusions an
Literature
of fish and fairytales.
i was five years old when i first started dreaming of fish.
i made wishes on them, sometimes. and 'don't ever leave me,' i told them. 'please don't.'
i know it sounds insane but i could swear - and still do - that they promised me they'd never leave. that they'd carry my dreams into eternity and hold me. keep me from falling. drowning.
'be my gills when i can't swim anymore,' i told them. 'be my gills.'
and they were.
.
i was nine when my parents got a divorce.
that night, i didn't understand. that night, i cried until the sky was painted in crimson lights and it was morning and the sun found me on my bed, passed out and tear-stained.
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your heart is a beautiful color.
© 2008 - 2024 Amertie
Comments16
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i. Yes, it is very relaxing. maybe I'll draw it someday...
ii. I wish always. at 11:11, on eyelashes, on shooting stars. But never on birthday cakes.
ii. You make me smile.
iv. I wish there wasn't something always missing.
ii. I wish always. at 11:11, on eyelashes, on shooting stars. But never on birthday cakes.
ii. You make me smile.
iv. I wish there wasn't something always missing.