June 3, 1996
The pictures are liars. They tell a story of love, happiness, and free spirits...but that isn't my world. That isn't the world my parents live in anymore, either.
Mom talks of that time with a smile and laughter, her hands outlining the mold of her dress on her hips, the first slow dance, the rice being thrown. Before daddy's accident, she says the world was just a little bit brighter. A little bit better.
She doesn't understand what I'm saying when I tell her about the monsters. She doesn't see them, lurking in the shadows of daddy's smile in every photograph. She doesn't see them, but I do. I just don't know what they
Origami Stars (C) by SurrealCachinnation, literature
Literature
Origami Stars (C)
I've kept every one of the origami stars you made in an empty glass Coke bottle, filling it to the brim over seven months of brief letters elegantly scribbled on delicate strips. My tiny paper galaxy sits between the empty velvet-lined box and the shattered picture frame, on top of my heavily-used thesaurus (you know how difficult it was to find words at times).
The weatherman called for rain the day we met. You were static and sour limes and I almost couldn't swallow the lies you were spewing, but when you called me beautiful, I smelled cherries. And no, no, no, I'm not looking for love or even romance from
I've kept every one of the origami stars you made in an empty glass Coke bottle, filling it to the brim over seven months of brief letters elegantly scribbled on delicate strips. My tiny paper galaxy sits between the empty velvet-lined box and the shattered picture frame, on top of my heavily-used thesaurus (you know how difficult it was to find words at times).
The weatherman called for rain the day we met. You were static and sour limes and I almost couldn't swallow the lies you were spewing, but when you called me beautiful, I smelled cherries. And no, no, no, I'm not looking for love or even romance from you. I just want to feel human.
I'm finding out that i miss you more than dreams of sailing ships along the horizons. I sleep and wake with the toss of the waves while your ship moors on the edges of another woman's heart. Your absence is the weight sinking my heart to the bottom of the cold, dark ocean floor. Every time I see the silhouette of a ship I hoist the white flag in surrender. It's the only hope I have of bringing you home.
Surely, darling, these waters are vast enough for the both of us.
There's a buoy lost at sea and I can feel it bobbing with my breaths and darling, you should know that I don't drown that easily anymore, but if it takes drowning for you to a
Why can't you need me like I need you to? Don't need me like a puppy needs its mother's milk to live, I couldn't bear the responsibility of your dependence on me. Don't need me like the blue collar reluctantly needs his job, grudgingly punching in and out because he's got no other [better] choice. Don't need me like a junkie needs his fix, returning to his damnation out of habit and insanity. Need me like your right shoe; sure, you could go on without me, but unbalanced, uncomfortable and never quite-right.
You've dug your fingers beneath my skin and your nails are skimming my wrist bone with jarring finality and all I need is for you to let
Rag Doll Comfort--C. by betwixtthepages, literature
Literature
Rag Doll Comfort--C.
Why can't you need me like I need you to? Don't need me like a puppy needs its mother's milk to live, I couldn't bear the responsibility of your dependence on me. Don't need me like the blue collar reluctantly needs his job, grudgingly punching in and out because he's got no other [better] choice. Don't need me like a junkie needs his fix, returning to his damnation out of habit and insanity. Need me like your right shoe; sure, you could go on without me, but unbalanced, uncomfortable and never quite-right.
You've dug your fingers beneath my skin and your nails are skimming my wrist bone with jarring finality and all I need is for you to let
"When the gods return from the ends of the fasting sky, they'll stand in the rain and knock and knock." The line falls from Phora Bidden's lips with the heft of a habit. A mantra from his childhood, the words had acted as a lullaby, warding off the nightmares and dream demons. Chuckling at the memories, he hops from the truck with a box of bedding in his arms. Tossing it to the ground, Phora licks his lips. His forked tongue slips across the skin like a whisper. As soon as the packing's done, he intends to find a lake to slip into. It's hot; the air is drying him to a crisp.