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Literature Text
i once had someone who was like my favorite blanket.
i held him close, felt his warmth and inhaled his scent that helped me fall asleep.
clothed or naked, he treated me indifferently.
all i'm most certain of is that whenever i'm with him,
i'm like near the ocean, or under a shady tree on a scorching day.
i spoke to him the way i spoke to myself in my head; careless, familiar, unafraid.
i used to lie in his arms with a selfish grin, knowing i have found something most people never will.
i don't exactly know what, but whatever it is, it's definitely worth every ounce of my sleepless nights.
i think we never really had to talk; because even when we were as silent as death,
we understood eachother well, like how first kisses tell you if it's gonna be sweet or not.
i gave him room to breathe when the thought of him and me got too suffocating for him.
i gave him space. for someone so possessive, i gave him a lot of space.
there was never any kind of assurance that he would return,
and that kept me awake on nights i couldn't get my hands on liquor.
i miss him everyday we're apart, but he could live without me.
he isn't perfect, like the rest of us.
but i love him just the way he is; flawed and fragile.
i know he loves me, though. he denies it to himself to maintain balance,
and to make things easy for him
but i'm sure that how we feel about eachother is something absolute and untouchable.
or maybe not..
i can't count the times he was never there.
it was like sleeping without a blanket on chilly, rainy nights.
i held him close, felt his warmth and inhaled his scent that helped me fall asleep.
clothed or naked, he treated me indifferently.
all i'm most certain of is that whenever i'm with him,
i'm like near the ocean, or under a shady tree on a scorching day.
i spoke to him the way i spoke to myself in my head; careless, familiar, unafraid.
i used to lie in his arms with a selfish grin, knowing i have found something most people never will.
i don't exactly know what, but whatever it is, it's definitely worth every ounce of my sleepless nights.
i think we never really had to talk; because even when we were as silent as death,
we understood eachother well, like how first kisses tell you if it's gonna be sweet or not.
i gave him room to breathe when the thought of him and me got too suffocating for him.
i gave him space. for someone so possessive, i gave him a lot of space.
there was never any kind of assurance that he would return,
and that kept me awake on nights i couldn't get my hands on liquor.
i miss him everyday we're apart, but he could live without me.
he isn't perfect, like the rest of us.
but i love him just the way he is; flawed and fragile.
i know he loves me, though. he denies it to himself to maintain balance,
and to make things easy for him
but i'm sure that how we feel about eachother is something absolute and untouchable.
or maybe not..
i can't count the times he was never there.
it was like sleeping without a blanket on chilly, rainy nights.
Literature
I tried
I tried to count my scars,
But I couldn't tell
Where one began
And another ended.
So I tried to count the cuts,
But I couldn't, because
Blood smeared across my skin,
Connecting them like a thin,
Red veil of pain.
And so I cried.
I cried a single tear, because
When I need to cry,
I can't.
Finally, I sat down,
And put pen to paper,
Or fingers to keys.
And tried to write my emotions.
But I couldn't, because
I don't know how to tell the world
What I feel like,
When I have no right.
I looked from the blood stained tissues,
Across my torn body,
Into my own eyes, reflected perfectly by the mirror before me.
Another tear was p
Literature
Stone
"You have a stone in your heart,"
That rouses me somewhat. I look up from my book and out the window at the gray fog that's settled over everything like wet cotton. I imagine breathing it, letting it fill my lungs with gray. All at once, the room is suffocating and I push the window open and the cool air tumbles in and ruffles the pages of my book so that I lose my place.
The spell of the story unravels and some part of me aches to know that the sort of love that exists in the storybooks is never true.
She loves the lines of him.
Her.
"Are you listening?"
"
Yes," I say without much conviction.
Rainwater pools on the windowsill.
Literature
I am.
I am.
I am the person who lives.
I am the person who loves.
I am the girl who cries to sleep at night, wishing I could be prettier.
I am the boy who is trying to live up to everyone else's expectations other than my own.
I am the invisible who linger in the hallways.
I am the person who bullies to feel better.
I am the parent who gave up after my child went to jail.
I am the daughter who works at fifteen because my parents can't.
I am the person who is bullied for being different.
I am the person who lives because I don't know what happens after death.
I am the woman who is hit on every day because of my looks, making them more of
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when we first kissed, that was me,
forgiving you of all the hurt i knew you would cause me.
that was me assuring you that i would always be there when you crumble.
***
i've tried to break us down into words, and this is what i came up with. it lacks the irrevocable pain,
and it doesn't make everyone see how we smile together, and how in your arms,
i brace myself from the hurt that's expected to crash like a tidal wave.
maybe i've done enough, maybe i've done well.
you might come back, or we might stay like this forever. apart.
i'm wishing you're one of the thousands who viewed this.
© 2011 - 2024 izha
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