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Literature
12.2
I wear my lies like armour.
Sliding off the metal before sliding into our bed.
Truth draped over my bones in the form of flesh.
Sinew and bone cannot tell a lie.
I refuse to speak.
These lungs and the air that escapes them have been steeped in the blackness of untruths.
Any breath taken or recieved is living proof.
And your lips and their softness slide across my neck like the tightning of a noose.
Bringing a little more death with every touch of love, of which I am unworthy.
As the darkness of night envelopes us,
as the quickness of your body and the force of your rhythm masks my unwanted pleasure,
I am helpless.
I lie, unprotected and power
Literature
Something's Wrong
I don't cut myself anymore. I haven't since last summer, when the sun was so blindingly bright it perforated through my curtains and stained my eyes.
The cuts were on one forearm, deep and red and angry, all the way from elbow to wrist. I'd sometimes leave the flesh exposed, and watched as curious eyes flickered from my face to arm as we spoke. No one ever asked.
When the arm was too sore to slice with scissors I'd scrape away at the paint and plaster on my walls. I'd carve deep shapes and lines like limbs from a tree, reaching out over my head and clutching at the window.
The walls are painted deep purple now. I sat for hours and filled i
Literature
32. Night
I have lost her.
I don't understand.
Why did this happen?
It's getting darker.
What am I supposed to do now?
It's cold.
Has time stopped?
Or is it my heart?
What is happening to me?
I can't see light at the end.
What's the point now?
Was it my fault?
I don't know what to do.
How can I go on like this?
I can't... I just... can't....
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title is temporary for now.
This work explores the theme of suicide, which may be considered a trigger to some, which is why I tagged it under mature: violence. (I'm not sure what else it could be placed under, so here it sits).
Something I dreamt about, not in this detail but to some degree.
> How did you feel about the narrator? Did you sense that something in him was horribly awry although you didn't know what? Did you get a feeling of tragedy/struggle or did he come off flat?
> Did it move by too fast in any places?
> Feedback is L-O-V-E-D.
This work explores the theme of suicide, which may be considered a trigger to some, which is why I tagged it under mature: violence. (I'm not sure what else it could be placed under, so here it sits).
Something I dreamt about, not in this detail but to some degree.
> How did you feel about the narrator? Did you sense that something in him was horribly awry although you didn't know what? Did you get a feeling of tragedy/struggle or did he come off flat?
> Did it move by too fast in any places?
> Feedback is L-O-V-E-D.
Mature
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