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Literature Text
He was a tad too much on the anachronistic side and I was almost rudely schizophrenic. He taught me that touch was a gift only death could bring for me. So I swam through film strips caked with silver bromide, that made my eyes red and smelled the way water does when you know you're going to drown, to leap towards this friend - this world - I was too far from to experience.
He felt my veins bulge - so transparent, so prominent - every time my fingers would mischievously curl into a fist in his luscious chocolatey locks. He would loosen and play with them as he would with stray strands of hair. When I would tell him that it hurt too much, he would say that anxiety is a luxury only the insane deserve. So I decided it was too late to stop trying to stay here and plummeted down faster than I probably should have.
He was more than my thoughts could conceive in a laid out algorithm. He was a slave and a mentor to only my desire. He was too chivalrous, too light-hearted and too much of me for him to be okay with existing. Though he taught me so much, I only taught him how to taunt and question; how to disfigure happiness in a way, even misery didn't resemble the outcome.
He was my almost; the only one who could not possibly make me ache. He would leave when I wanted him to and crawl back to me when I did not feel the need to apologize. He was my flesh hammock on days the sun didn't feel like rising nor the rain wanting to stop. He could insert periods in verbose sentences and say writing was never my calling; he was.
He was not corporeal. And most of him had no will (rather my will) to be. He wished for nothing more than to depart from what seemed like the end of me. He never wanted to be there when it happened. He wanted me to be whole and fixed on a reality that was going to end anyway. He taught me that good things never came to those who wait. In fact, they had to be snatched and so did I. But he couldn't decide which he wanted more; me or my life. He just didn't know that my end was his beginning - his being alive.
He was light of emotion but too taut of looks. His face only wrinkled when I seemed to worry him with my loosened grip on insanity. He wanted me just as tight as the hair pulled behind his head; like the noose hung from my ceiling just as I stepped off the desk. He wanted me his, and I wasn't sure if I wanted him mine. So when our lessons were learnt, we swam in vintage film to a place of more pursuit than opportunities.
He could not show me the difference.
He felt my veins bulge - so transparent, so prominent - every time my fingers would mischievously curl into a fist in his luscious chocolatey locks. He would loosen and play with them as he would with stray strands of hair. When I would tell him that it hurt too much, he would say that anxiety is a luxury only the insane deserve. So I decided it was too late to stop trying to stay here and plummeted down faster than I probably should have.
He was more than my thoughts could conceive in a laid out algorithm. He was a slave and a mentor to only my desire. He was too chivalrous, too light-hearted and too much of me for him to be okay with existing. Though he taught me so much, I only taught him how to taunt and question; how to disfigure happiness in a way, even misery didn't resemble the outcome.
He was my almost; the only one who could not possibly make me ache. He would leave when I wanted him to and crawl back to me when I did not feel the need to apologize. He was my flesh hammock on days the sun didn't feel like rising nor the rain wanting to stop. He could insert periods in verbose sentences and say writing was never my calling; he was.
He was not corporeal. And most of him had no will (rather my will) to be. He wished for nothing more than to depart from what seemed like the end of me. He never wanted to be there when it happened. He wanted me to be whole and fixed on a reality that was going to end anyway. He taught me that good things never came to those who wait. In fact, they had to be snatched and so did I. But he couldn't decide which he wanted more; me or my life. He just didn't know that my end was his beginning - his being alive.
He was light of emotion but too taut of looks. His face only wrinkled when I seemed to worry him with my loosened grip on insanity. He wanted me just as tight as the hair pulled behind his head; like the noose hung from my ceiling just as I stepped off the desk. He wanted me his, and I wasn't sure if I wanted him mine. So when our lessons were learnt, we swam in vintage film to a place of more pursuit than opportunities.
He could not show me the difference.
Literature
voidfriend
i.
her eyes
never land.
a scape claimed
no matter how sharp
her intake,
or the orbits
aligned by her will,
or the scope
of the aperture
filled.
lips fueled
and begging
to be ignited.
ii.
she can't fight it.
cracks in the visor
and pressure leaks.
a void
asking her hand
and her peace
as the tip
of her tongue
starts to freeze.
spidered sight
and face
like a shard
divided.
iii.
"if i have to be breathless,"
she finally states,
"i'd prefer it to be by the trident."
Literature
Message
On the
tear-stained pillow
I once cried my prayers
into, I found a note:
I'm sorry.
- God
Literature
Museling
Red wine rambles
curdle the air, but still
you dream; half-moon
body curled in the
lamp light. I am leaving,
I am leaving, choking on
some holy word—
the floorboards creak,
a sonata for my
changeling shadow
whilst you, hair tangled upon
the pillow, are spun gold.
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I haven't been verbose in very long. So here, have a bit of past me with new me stories. I'd really like some feedback on this.
Is this too verbose?
Favourite line/part?
Grammatical errors?
reading done here: [link]
Is this too verbose?
Favourite line/part?
Grammatical errors?
reading done here: [link]
Comments34
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I failed to comment on how much I love this the last time I read this.