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Literature Text
The venom that dripped from her lips
was that which you wouldn't expect from such an unassuming girl,
but she spit gasoline and her tongue had the treacherous tell-tale taste of sulfur and flint.
There was no way of mistaking that fire that coursed through her veins
and caused her pulse to whiplash anyone who tried to prove her wrong.
She hated condescension, and arrogance, and the smell of her hair after a shower,
but lived recklessly for sunsets
and stargazing and
sleeping with the window open,
just in case her heart decided to go skinny-dipping with the man on the moon.
She was all wrong for me,
and even worse for herself,
but I've always been attracted to fire,
and this girl was a wildfire with a death wish and a bucket list
that included, "Fuck the president behind a 7-11",
and "Arm-wrestle Jesus".
She was what my momma called "the wrong side of the tracks",
and my preacher called "the devil in hiding",
but she never liked church much anyways,
and I don't think it really suited her.
She would stick her gum under the pews,
and her tongue out at the stained glass that called themselves saints,
and scribble swearwords in the hymn books, just to see the old ladies faint.
This girl was going to make me unravel at my seams,
so I pulled that first thread loose,
just so that she have something to grab onto.
I don't think she's ever had something to hold on to.
So I offer her my hand, and she laughs straight in my face,
"Falling in love means you have to hit face-first.
How do you expect me to do that if you're wanting to hold my hand all the goddamn time?"
So I promise to be her bandaids,
and she tells me that's god damn cheesy,
and she'd rather have the scabs to prove she's so not immortal,
and far from perfect,
because perfect is a dirty word, and someday, she'd like to learn to stop swearing,
so that her someday daughter will know practice makes perfect,
and perfect makes plastic,
and plastic bends and gives itself away - so she never wants to practice,
she just wants to throw herself into life,
and tell him to catch her, and teach her, and touch her, and love her like she loves him.
Because all that fight,
and all that fire inside her steam-engine heart
is just a facade for someone who desperately wants to be loved like life,
like air,
like a memory that will never ever be forgotten,
because she knows what that feels like to be forgotten.
And all she wants is someone careful enough to preserve this memory,
like a butterfly pinned to cork,
or a snowflake pressed between glass.
She's that breakable,
but she'd never let you know it.
And she'd fight anyone who said different.
Except for me,
when I whisper that I know she's fragile, and very precariously patched up,
and that I'll always be her punching bag,
and never let her fall any further than into love and outstretched arms.
was that which you wouldn't expect from such an unassuming girl,
but she spit gasoline and her tongue had the treacherous tell-tale taste of sulfur and flint.
There was no way of mistaking that fire that coursed through her veins
and caused her pulse to whiplash anyone who tried to prove her wrong.
She hated condescension, and arrogance, and the smell of her hair after a shower,
but lived recklessly for sunsets
and stargazing and
sleeping with the window open,
just in case her heart decided to go skinny-dipping with the man on the moon.
She was all wrong for me,
and even worse for herself,
but I've always been attracted to fire,
and this girl was a wildfire with a death wish and a bucket list
that included, "Fuck the president behind a 7-11",
and "Arm-wrestle Jesus".
She was what my momma called "the wrong side of the tracks",
and my preacher called "the devil in hiding",
but she never liked church much anyways,
and I don't think it really suited her.
She would stick her gum under the pews,
and her tongue out at the stained glass that called themselves saints,
and scribble swearwords in the hymn books, just to see the old ladies faint.
This girl was going to make me unravel at my seams,
so I pulled that first thread loose,
just so that she have something to grab onto.
I don't think she's ever had something to hold on to.
So I offer her my hand, and she laughs straight in my face,
"Falling in love means you have to hit face-first.
How do you expect me to do that if you're wanting to hold my hand all the goddamn time?"
So I promise to be her bandaids,
and she tells me that's god damn cheesy,
and she'd rather have the scabs to prove she's so not immortal,
and far from perfect,
because perfect is a dirty word, and someday, she'd like to learn to stop swearing,
so that her someday daughter will know practice makes perfect,
and perfect makes plastic,
and plastic bends and gives itself away - so she never wants to practice,
she just wants to throw herself into life,
and tell him to catch her, and teach her, and touch her, and love her like she loves him.
Because all that fight,
and all that fire inside her steam-engine heart
is just a facade for someone who desperately wants to be loved like life,
like air,
like a memory that will never ever be forgotten,
because she knows what that feels like to be forgotten.
And all she wants is someone careful enough to preserve this memory,
like a butterfly pinned to cork,
or a snowflake pressed between glass.
She's that breakable,
but she'd never let you know it.
And she'd fight anyone who said different.
Except for me,
when I whisper that I know she's fragile, and very precariously patched up,
and that I'll always be her punching bag,
and never let her fall any further than into love and outstretched arms.
Literature
If
And if I could
I would push this needle straight to my skin
Sewing up the edges to keep all the pain in
And if I could
I would tie the fraying seams tight
To give the illusion that everything is alright
And if I could
I would forget you ever existed
Pretend we never happened, so I don't need to fix it
And if I could
I would burn up every memory
But that's impossible, because you are a part of me
And if I could
I would tear the pain straight from my chest
I'd forget about you like I forgot all the rest
And if I could
I would get stitched up and be all better
Perfectly intact, just like all of your letters
And if I could
I w
Literature
Loving blindly .
Darling, there was always a difference between
who you are and how you made me feel;
Instant competition, perfect opposition,
I just chose to turn my compass backwards.
I cared too much about how the poison tasted
to notice I was drinking it while
forcing it down your throat.
I was too blind in bliss to see that
when we kissed, you spit it all in my mouth.
And when you gave me a mocking grin
while watching my body decay at your feet,
I wonder why did I always see
a loving smile?
I guess that's why our hearts are not eyes
and they beat on the left -
there's nothing right about loving blindly.
Literature
I play with Words like you play with Hearts .
you are a brittle little thing but
your bite makes me restl-ess--
ays could be written about your
eyes, shimmering in the star-light--
headed is what you make me--
ddling into my heartst[r]ings until I am
in need of med-icine--
ss melting away at your heated t-ouch!
and yes, I want you inside me
and all around me
and never leaving my si[ght]de--
votion and affection surging th--
rough our beings playing, moving as
o[verlapping]
n[estled]
e[ntity].
you're a slippery ro-ad--
diction hard to sha--
ke-en-edged and dange-rous--
ing my heart to bea-ting--
ling in my skin--
ned knees when f
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Yet again I prep myself, steel myself from the delectable encantations of your writing, and as quickly as i click on the link I am helplessly enthralled, Shea you are truly talented and if I ever write 10 % as well as you I'd be damn proud of it. Please when you get published, let us know here plz plz plz !!!