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Literature
please.
i want you to call me some sort
of semi-sweet baked good and
hold me while you confess that
sometimes i cause more pain
than i am worth but you are
willing to wait till it evens out.
let me give you a back massage but
please dont tell me if i squeeze too
hard because i dont think i can
handle hurting you anymore
when im really just trying to help
i know you can take it anyway.
dont mention it when i give each
one of your body parts and joints
a separate color because i want
to be able to decipher them with
my eyes closed when we are so
tangled i cant tell which limb
is really mine or actually yours.
i would adore it if you
Literature
Take a look, then look again.
"See that boy? Standing there!
The one with brown and messy hair?
The boy with jeans and shirt in blue?
The one with worn and frayed clothes too?
The one who hardly has a tan!"
"No, I see a different man
I see hair with life that shows
Hair that waves while the wind blows.
I see clothes with colors dim
because of where they've gone with him.
I also see eyes, of faded blue
Like clear skies only summers knew"
"How do you see these things in him!?"
"I took the time to look again"
Literature
PTSD
- - -
every night you scream at someone. i try to tell you they're not there; they don't exist. but you can't hear me. your body writhes like a tornado and the covers are bathed with sweat.
it must feel like blood to you. that must be why you howl yourself hoarse. why i sleep with earmuffs gripped tight and dream of you dying.
(it used to be a nightmare, but now it's more of a wish.)
- - -
you mumble to the same someone while you eat those crumbly cornflakes. something about something that i don't think you entirely understand.
i don't know why i still make you a bowl every day. you think i would learn after the thirteenth time of broom
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i don't how many times i've wished i could like, or even love, someone..... but it just doesn't happen.
Mature
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