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Literature Text
the other day you told me
you hoped all my dreams
would someday come true
and i laughed
because i always dream
such terrible things.
(but maybe you knew that?)
Literature
it's only as bad as you say.
my heart beat still skips like stones. and i can almost see the breaks in the surface from where all these misconstrued feelings ripple out and dissipate. like drops of water on my window pane, bleeding together and streaming away. like dust in our airways, inhaled, exhaled and slowing settling until my whole world is covered with a thick layer of grime and i'm left wondering if this is what love is supposed to feel like.
it is, right?
because otherwise, i'm shy of the mark and even shyer of finding something new to waste my time on since these lipsthey don't move as much as they should because i tend to let my heart do all the talkin
Literature
I hope it's worth it when I'm gone.
I can't even pretend things are simple anymore.
It's raining again, and with every crash of thunder, I miss you more than I can bear. I know it's not worth saying, because really nothing much is anymore, but it doesn't make it any less true.
It's eleven ten on a Friday night, and I'm sitting in the middle of the grass, watching the downpour spill off the roof. My t-shirt is clinging to my ribcage, and my hair is sticking to my face. I can feel the water running down the ridges of my spine, the backs of my hands, clumping in my eyelashes, but still, I don't move. Sometimes, when I can't stand what the world is doing anymore, I allow myself a
Literature
please let me get what i want.
For two hundred and eighty four days, I woke up. I woke up with this bone-deep ache that never went away. I woke up to an incessant question playing in my mind that would never be answered. I woke up alone.
For two hundred and eighty four days, I woke up without you when I woke up at all. The thing about time is that it never does make anything better. It just means more space to think. It means sleepless nights trying to figure it all out. When it went wrong. How to make it better. It means slowly losing my mind. But it never once meant getting over you.
It's funny how the things you think you've forgotten always come rushing back when you
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it's hilarious that i promised myself i would write plenty this summer and i couldn't find it in myself to even open up my writing folders and now that school is starting i am writing all the time.
university is going brilliantly, by the way. i think i've finally decided upon a major.
university is going brilliantly, by the way. i think i've finally decided upon a major.
© 2011 - 2024 the-chemical-factory
Comments13
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my god this is so fucking true.
really speaks to that wedge that selling your existence to art can drive between you and other human beings. when that delicious ache that's beating in you is essential as breathing and those on the outside have to either accept that or leave (and so, so often they leave.)
again, not super fond of the last line. it almost feels like a stronger piece without the going-back-on-itself (which I believe is half-implied already.) as a reader, I almost always prefer it when the piece is left with open pages rather than rushing to its own conclusion.
you are a lovely writer.
really speaks to that wedge that selling your existence to art can drive between you and other human beings. when that delicious ache that's beating in you is essential as breathing and those on the outside have to either accept that or leave (and so, so often they leave.)
again, not super fond of the last line. it almost feels like a stronger piece without the going-back-on-itself (which I believe is half-implied already.) as a reader, I almost always prefer it when the piece is left with open pages rather than rushing to its own conclusion.
you are a lovely writer.