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Literature
hope
She is an ambulance chaser;
A super hero following sirens
Clasped in her hands
Is life
A fragile case
Her breath fogs the windows
The victim inside
Reading as she traces:
I am here
Reading as she traces:
Here is hope
Her fortune is her immortality
With it she nourishes the poor
Clasped in her hands
Is life
Glowing in a fragile case
Her fingers are little locks
Keeping it warm for me
The victim inside:
I am here
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Literature
one more night
the future should hold fragments of the past, and it does. just to cut you up in the morning. the way a reflex goes about itself without warning. the pit of your stomach will drop out, and you'll be empty and on fire, because of the present reminding itself of something in the past. it isn't fair, but your own brain doesn't play nice. it plays with matches and knives.
and your body takes it out on you; fists into walls, noses, mirrors.
it takes it the way a good girl would.
the future holds on with grubby fingers to all the things said, meant, lied about, and stolen from the past, collapsing all of that into the present just when your head hits the pillow. suddenly sleep and coherent thought does not exist in the present. and you're awake for seventy seven hours before you realize that three days ago is now the past and you're living in the present again. looking into the future.
and your body takes it out on you.
it takes it the way a good girl would.
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Literature
lemons
His voice has the same impact as lemon juice in hot tea; it tears through everything else until all you hear is the syllables tumble from his mouth to the floor, soaking your feet, sticky and warm.
He is also a traitor. Or maybe he isn't. The way his eyes are set in his skull remind people of a person who may slit their throat if they were to turn their backs. Metaphorically. Literally, too.
The motion of his body could go side-by-side with the way waves crash against jagged rocks in bad weather. He movs tumultuously. He never shuts up, constantly squirting lemon juice at people, possibly ready to cut their necks open, walking too fast for anybody to get a word in edge wise.
He breaks on the sidewalk. The impact of gravelly concrete most felt on pressure points: the back of his head, his shoulder blades, his ass, his heels. He lies there, a bearskin rug people stare at as they pass, but are careful not to step on, on their way to work or school or to rob a bank.
He stares at the sky. I
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Mature content
drop off :iconalwaysscissorhands:alwaysscissorhands 0 0
Literature
little boy blue
He places his feet on the step and it is a defining moment. It's one up. It's almost there. It's something. He slowly takes each step so that he can get used to the smell on the second floor if there is one. His muscles feel like they might be shrinking, but he can't be sure. It just seems that way. In times of stress, the body can do such painful things to itself. Like eating itself from the inside out. His stomach hurts and there are tears in his eyes, but Mother said to go up. Go up, she told him, and see if he's doing any better.
Grandfather hadn't come downstairs all day. Certainly, he must be dead. When an elderly person doesn't wake up early and start their day, it usually means they are gone, passed away, dead. Usually. He could be up there combing his mustache.
With his hand on the banister head, the boy can feel his heartbeat vibrating in his fingers, to the wood and all the way back into the hallway below. His throat tightens.
"Grandfather?"
The boy pushes open the door, wit
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Literature
go on
There is fury painted on her hand like a Henna tattoo. He is gone. He is gone and there is not a way for him to come back. Her fingernails relieve the paint that isn't really there. Her skin breaks. The purpose of this exercise is to remind the body that it must go on without the heart. It must breathe without its lungs. Go on and breathe and walk and live without life.
She will miss him. His gloves and his hair. His shoulders so broad. She will wake some nights and stare at the wall, headlights passing outside of other people going on and she will not want to anymore. She will, but she will not want to. The fury in her hands will drip and melt to her knees and feet. She will pull her hair back and off her neck and tie it at the base of her skull and pretend she can feel his fingers there. But she cannot and she knows it.
Her life will clamber on. Her jacket and her eyes. Her shoulders unsure but steady. He will be gone. His shined shoes and unbuttoned sleep shirt. His heart erupted. H
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Literature
perfect
It's perfect.
They screamed at each other until their throats tore from their necks and fought on the carpet. Their heavy breathing met between them and the air fought, too. Their necks and their breath gathered the daggers they were glaring into each other, and they fought with those as well. It was a mean, wicked battle. Boys refuse to lose. Nobody ever ends up winning.
It's perfect.
They wrestled their way to the shower until the sweat splashed to the carpet and fought with the fibers there. Their heavy breathing met between them and the air fought, too. Their fingers clasped around each other's hips and necks, their bodies wrestled their way to the shower. Boys refuse to apologize. Nobody ever ends up talking.
It's perfect.
The water beat the ceramic tub with vengeance. Everybody loved their bad moods. The heat of the shower calmed their torched throats that were torn from their necks, where they had fought on the carpet. Their breathing evened out as the heat rushed their lungs. T
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Literature
weight
hello butcher
remind me who i am;
take the weight
the draft
the blanket i wear
hello butcher
tell me who you are
risk the weight
the draft
the blanket you wear
hello darling
forego introductions
guess the weight
the draft
the color of covers
hello darling
tell me who you are
risk the weight
the draft
the blanket you wear
goodbye butcher
you told me who i was
took the weight
the draft
the blanket i wore
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Literature
J
you can dream little jay, but i won't ask you to. i'll think up my own schemes, redeem my own way. you can fly little jay, but really you don't have to. i'll catch a train all alone, be there by one or two. you can sing little jay, but i won't ask you to. i'll hum my own throat dry, try to carry a tune.
i see you in my plots little jay, though the canvas is blank. i recreate your feet and wings inside my dreams. you can dream little jay. i feel you in my skin little jay, though it is fake. i regain my path in the clouds. you can fly little jay. i hear some glorious words tumble from my mouth, though they hardly ever come out. i regrow my sound. you can sing little jay.
little jay. mock me all day. high up and away from me, true feelings; set free. dream of me. i'm not asking. little jay. come my way. high up and away. fly to me. i'm not meaning that. little jay. sing to my grave. i'm not asking.
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Literature
skin
The soft hum that her skin gives off is the white noise that keeps me from sleep or decent thought. Even as young children, I stayed awake nights, hearing my best friend off somewhere in the distance. Unable to connect that sleep deficiency to her, I was a troubled girl. I walked clumsily through life, listening to that hum. Maybe when she cried is when I heard it the loudest, or maybe when we both cried. The theories are not all concluded.
Lately, the hum of her skin has reached a new pitch or level – something. It lulls me to sleep, but forces my mind to stay awake and listen. My ears are so warm from the exertion, like muscle built up, contracting when her skin starts its song. Hearing is just the half of it.
When we aren't collapsed together, radiating heat against each other's limbs, I replay her skin's gentle lullaby. The sound is soft white noise in the back of my mind to keep from losing myself. It coos that life must go on, and quitting means the music stops. The idea of
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Literature
Quietest
In the quietest front yard, on the sleepiest street, a boy is climbing a tree. It is his first attempt. All the adventurous characters in books and on television climbed trees. The boy just wants to see what all the fuss is about. He told himself last night he would do it. Pluck up the courage, climb the tree and screech for his mother to take a picture to show to the other kids at school. The picture would be solid evidence, proof that Archibald Herring is not afraid of anything.
A little more than halfway up, however, Archie does become afraid. His body tenses around the trunk too tightly. He can feel the bark digging into his skin, leaving a mark. His eyes shut, too scared to look down. He's up pretty high and he begins to sweat. The reality of it all comes rushing through his heart. If he goes too high, he won't be able to get down. If he goes back down, he'll be a coward. If he stays right where he is, he'll be sun burned to death.
His arms hurt. The tree is too big around for his
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Literature
dear always
Good night,
As the beginning comes to a close, I have only one thought on my mind. I love you. Too often, people let this notion slip their minds. Love, they assume, is only found in the movies. Or they mistake love for an uncomfortable twenty minutes for groping in the back of their mother's car with their breath fogging the windows. That is not love. Love is not that, nor is it something to be groped. Because of you, I know precisely what love is, what it means, and where it can be found.
When thoughts are so dark, familial affection cannot bring back the light, true, unabashed confessions can. The tunnel begins to widen, and something aides in breathing. The life you have given back to me. A desperate act can lead to an honest divulgence that saves lives. Love is something that can be found sitting next to Courage, just inside of your heart.
The delicate balance of the way your hips sway when moving from the oven to sink the stirs up more emotion and need than a hurried physical act
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Literature
a hold up
Imagine the consequences of a different anatomy. Would you still run your hands through my bones? Strangers would not care for my face if it were skewed in some way; borrowed eyes or a smaller mouth. Would you still kiss me if a harvest reached my cheeks? Would you still remark on my scent, if it was not one you were used to? I imagine you would.
Imagine the reactions of a different anatomy. My legs would be longer, stronger. My voice would be one you were not used to hearing in the morning over the hum of the muted television. Would I frighten you? Would you fumble with my new clothes presented on my shoulders in a new way? I wouldn't want you to be cautious. I would still want it.
Imagine that my anatomy does not make me a person. My love, my thoughts, my wonder makes me the one you fell in love with. Whatever lies on my bones, whatever my skin feels like, I would love you to love it. No matter what, you would still wrap your fingers around it. On it. In it. And take me as I am.
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Literature
31610
Against the corner of the wall, the light fractures. There's something sweet in the air. Between the floor and the ceiling, girls are dancing. Against each other. Against the wood boards in painted bare feet. Outside the door, no music plays. It remains hidden between the four walls here and each girl's ears and mouths.
They all say things. Things not often heard anywhere else.
Distracted and distant, "I can't seem to find my mind. I could have sworn. . . could have sworn it was here. Now it's gone."
Gasp and lunacy. "It's stolen?"
Blame the fractured light.
"Oh no. Highly negative. It simply cannot be stolen."
Trust lives here, along the windowpane.
More gasp and more lunacy, this time with added clinching fingernails. "It's lost?"
"Ditto answer. Nothing becomes lost. Some things just can't or don't want to be found for awhile. Every litte thing needs its own space, you know. A little breathing room, spread its wings and all that nonsense. I do hope it comes back to me soon, though. I
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Literature
dwell
Simplest dwell; to ponder upon your beauty. To have floating golden orbs for eyes when you are on my mind is life's greatest pleasure. To feel my voided heart begin to beat with the blood you soak through my veins. I leave myself in tangles, working through my thoughts how a person such as yourself may exist. I linger on the possibility of one day knotting our fingers together with strong colorful string. Bound and as one.
You keep my bones tainted with need.  I crave it when you sleep. I am sleepless when you are resting. I dream awake and imagine us floating gently through foamed skies. Caressing the clouds, leaving a sweet scent behind us.
I conquer bad thoughts with the pictures of you I have framed and hung on the walls of my skull. Big, ornate, metal objects with sparkling nails and glue. You dwell there.
You dwell there. The buttons on my shirt, faint cold on my skin. I often think of that. And the sound of life you breathe into my ears, like a tiny music box, your ton
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Literature
window pain
Listen to the windows speak. Their ledges call and beckon. With the snow and sprinkled rain and the dirt blown high up from the ground, where you can hear echoes. Footsteps. Walking and talking and voices and chiming. Listen. Listen to the windows speak. Their glass holds shadows. Spirited teeth gnashing the ears on your head. And you're listening. Creeping closer to hear what they are going to say to you. It's never decipherable. Ever.
You recall the nights when the breeze sang something sweet. You were bait. The swift sonnet broke into your dreams and drew you to the divided window. To the shadows. To the ledges and the voices with the snow and the rain droplets and the dirt blown up from the ground, where the echoes were. The gravel brick under your feet. The snow. The rain. Or the dirt.
Peace of mind isn't a reality. It suggests utopia, but nobody lives long in a perfect atmosphere. Perfection remains silent. The world remains chaotic. Loud. There are voices thundering outside the
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Activity


More than a year?

Really?

Where have you been? What are you doing? I thought you died.

I've been in love. Getting married. Heart still pumping.

 

Welcome back, self.

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alwaysscissorhands
Kris Lee
Artist | Hobbyist | Varied
United States
Formerly missxscissorhands.
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:iconfrankwaygerardiero:
frankwaygerardiero Featured By Owner May 10, 2012  Student Traditional Artist
Hey I was just wondering what your last name was so I could talk about your story "Boys Of Seclusion" as a fictional short story text in my English Speech at school, I know this is weird and creepy, but even if you chose a 'stage name' or something it would be really handy to make it sound like I know what I'm talking about, otherwise my teacher will mark me down and this speech is work 15% of my final grade :3
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:iconkill3rqu33n:
Kill3rQu33n Featured By Owner Jan 15, 2012  Hobbyist
Happy Birthday! :D :w00t:
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:iconalwaysscissorhands:
alwaysscissorhands Featured By Owner Jan 17, 2012  Hobbyist General Artist
Late on this, but thank you so much, I had a really good day! :)
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:iconscream-internally:
Scream-Internally Featured By Owner Nov 4, 2011
Your ferard, Boys of Secretion, I just gotta say. It's been a long time since I've read one as great as this.
-just sayin'. :)
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