like a box of chocolates
Have you ever had a box of See's chocolates? The soft centers?
Life is like a one pound box of soft centers. You open it up and there are so many possibilities, so many flavors like fudge, raspberry, strawberry. divinity, and that one that starts with a "b" -bordouve or something like that. And when you pop it into your mouth and chew through the chocolate and you taste the strawberry you can't help but smile. Esspecially because strawberry's pretty rare and really good. I get the "b" ones a lot. They taste good though. My mommy likes them a lot.
And whenever I pick up a strawberry my sister immediately picks up an identical piece, but it mever turns out to be strawberry. Usually it's fudge which is okay but kinda plain. Or cocnut which she likes but i don't. And somethimes it's peanut but
Christine saysChristine says9 years ago in General More Like This
I'm dressed in 94% cotton, 6% spandex, a chartreuse dress to my knees, accented with a loop of dark wooden beads, flaked out on someone else's couch, in someone else's home, and I've only known him for seven minutes since I tripped and fell off the curb, and he swooped me up and carried me off to his beige-colored couch. Kinda a scratchy couch too, and it's pinching and tugging at my bare arms, so I sit up and move over to another chair except that I don't exactly make it thanks to my earlier injury, and now I'm collapsed on someone else's floor in someone else's house, whimpering over my foot.
He comes out, swinging a box of Band-aids and a roll of ankle wrap between his fingers. His muffled flip-flops slap the brown carpet as he crosses the room and pauses over me. And he's standing over me, and I can feel him looking down at me through long eyelashes and drooped eyelids, and he asks, in an amused way, if I fell off the couch.
On Dying a VirginOn Dying a Virgin10 years ago in Scraps More Like This
On Dying a Virgin
Perhaps, you may think, there is something shameful about dying a virgin? But riddle me this-- in a society that not a century ago put a woman's virginity above her life, is it not this eternal innocence that we all desire?
But "dying a virgin?" you say? Excuse our malnomers, for what we truly revere is living a virgin. To see the world in astounding clarity without having each image marred by sexuality is the closest one can come to divinity. As your friends and adversaries lose their virginity, they lose their minds. Just watch the next time you see someone who is sexually active. There is no sweet small talk about the weather, no cordial compliments tossed about in our lovely trite manner, no indeed. There is only OMGWTFCONDOM and OMGWTFPENIS.
Please note that it is your virginal obligation to blush at that last sentence.
To live a virgin is to live. To live is great, ask anyone!* Sex ruins it all. Even the very words associated with sex are unappeali
EmilyI loved her inside letters, I tuckedEmily7 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
my hearts and my organs inside of her
messy scrawl, her heartache, her doodles
of lost girls, of black cats, of razors and
pills. I sealed myself, my fate, I sent it to her:
Three stamps, and a kiss, always
with pearl-pink lip gloss. It would fade in the mail,
traveling 5000 miles
to her door, but I did not
care and the doves inside
my chest dared to break out.
I loved her inside letters,
I tucked her pain inside my art.
I filled my envelopes
with sadness, pieces of my hair,
my strange secrets,
my broken stories.
Indeniablement StupideIndeniablement Stupide9 years ago in Socio-political More Like This
You'd be surprised to hear
where I am right now. I'm
a little surprised myself to be
here. I'm bleeding on this
paper. 3-hole punchers
are dangerous. Oh, wide eyes.
How do I know? I can see
your reaction. You forget
how well I know you. Do
you remember how you
kissed me back when
things were perfect? I do.
I can still taste them. How
often I'd press my lips
on paper to get your black
lipstick off and hang my
little imprints on the wall.
My mom always asked who
I'd kissed, and if I was
a lesbian. I'd just sigh
and roll over, mumbling
something about being too
tired to talk. And she'd
give a twin sigh and
slam my door. I know she
always hoped I'd follow
her out and apologize. But
my pride is phlegm
I have to spit out
because it's too big and disgusting to swallow.
But we kissed; oh! the
kisses. How lovely they
were. So casual, like hugs,
something that we never
expected to get stared at
for. I loved the taste of
Tootsie Pops that was always
on your lips. You shared
those suckers with me
Mercy and ChaosMercy and Chaos10 years ago in Socio-political More Like This
Rice. Yogurt. Frozen dinner.
I am eating the leftovers of every dinner of my life, trying to remember if there's a word for the moment when you forget what it's like to fuck a person you once loved.
I read the directions, and laugh at how precise they are. Written by committees of scientists, for the surety that nobody sets their house on fire. I almost imagine a circle of bald heads laboring over the precise wording. Like people read this for entertainment, for literature. Then, I realize, some people probably do.
I'm a middle child.
I wasn't a good kid, at all. I had to make a mess, because my older brother was an angel, and my little sister was adorable. I had to fuck things up, so that my parents would know my name.
Everyday, I'd go to our little ass backwards school, and watch one of those movies from the fifties that are meant for health class. This is your body. This is your brain. This is how to protect yourself from a bombing.
These are facets of outdated knowledge, meant to m
For ChristopherIt was an ashtray of a fall day, and the brooding air made pirouettes of the lovely dancer's silent stare. I filed my nails while sitting on the cold mahogany bench with all the rest of them. My camera lay unconcerned on the pavement behind my crossed ankles. These people didn't even have the decency to leave us some grass to stare at through the windows of this prison and the pale tendrils of the smoke around my hair were more an inspiration for poetry than photography. I wouldn't give a damn thing to be one of them. They could take their money and their politics and write me a letter from the top. I'd be sitting at home with the rhythmic clicking of my shutter and the secrets they didn't think I remembered.For Christopher9 years ago in Scraps More Like This
They all owed me favors, duties I liked to call them. All but one. The quiet blonde boy in the corner. He didn't owe me anything, but I owed him my world. He would never admit it. He would never admit anything. He'd just whistle softly and watch me file my nails.
In a time when th
WeightlessNineteen with a nervous stomach and a dry mouth. I keep myself occupied by reading the drink menu over and over until I can taste the alcohol in my mouth. But, no, that's not really alcohol. That's just the acetone on my breath because I haven't eaten all day. Yesterday morning, as I conjured up an image of you based on scant descriptions, I decided that my thighs were too wide for your supposed party boy preferences. That is why I am sitting here dressed in black, stomach growling, reading about a martini that I probably won't even order when you finally arrive. A friend on my right keeps calling me Morticia and I suddenly feel like one of those shabby women at funerals that wear frumpy navy dresses with lace collars. I should probably leave before you see me. That way you won't be disappointed when you realize the girl in that picture hanging up in that dorm room only appears flawless thanks to an inebriated amateur photographer.Weightless9 years ago in Biography & Memoir More Like This
I keep looking around for a tall blond s
Grim PenanceGrim Penance11 years ago in General Fiction More Like This
It was raining, pouring like a Biblical event on the sinners. Rain hit my face, slid off the edges of my hat in waves. It felt Biblical, certainly. I wanted to turn my eyes upward and let the water beat twin holes into my brain. I imagined I'd feel it happen with a child's look of wonder pointed at the clouds. A stupid, silly grin too.
The day I met Jack Silver, and by association Conrad Reynolds, was memorable not for the God-wrath behind thunderclaps, but for the way it smelled. Old. Musty. Missing that rebirth in air composition I associated with storms. So I blame the smell for the geriatric way I crossed the street and approached the door of Jack Silver on a miserable Wednesday morning. Jack had the sort of ass backwards name that had inspired Chandler to invent noir. It deserved mocking and admiration in equal doses.
He also lived in a shit-hole of an apartment, but at least it was out of th
High TeaHigh Tea7 years ago in Teen More Like This
I clamber up the ladder, stepping carefully onto the roof. "Hey, what are you doing up here?"
She smiles at me in a sunny way and pats the shingles, inviting me to sit down. "I'm being destructive."
"Oh, yeah?" Actively avoiding looking over the edge, I perch gingerly beside her, pressing my fingers into the folds of her t-shirt. "What are we destroying?"
I notice the big cardboard box in her lap for the first time, and she grins, reaching in with both hands, and gently lifts out a miniature porcelain teapot, with a lacy pattern of soft blue flowers.
My breath catches. "It's beautiful."
She laughs almost giddily, and I look at her warily. "I know." And, she throws it.
I watch it in its slow-motion reckless fall, and the tragic crash as it hits the driveway doesn't ring louder than my shriek of surprise and horror.
She misinterprets it for approval, and brings out another, a red-and-white Chinese pot, small and round and lovely, and I can't even find a voice to mourn as it tumbles to it
She Said, He SaidAnd She said;She Said, He Said8 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
You're beautiful when you're thinking
And you shine when you smile
You're complicated when it's simple
Yet you're so easy to understand
Your hands are warm around my fingers
And I like it best when I'm with you
Just to sit and watch the thoughts flit across your face
As I think about you
And how I love you
And always have
And He said;
what really matters iswhat really matters is9 years ago in Open More Like This
The sky went in labour as I drove from the supermarket,
my breath hopped with smoke that surged from lips
like clusters of people, as if it could be a good thing
to give yourself yellow fingernails and a bad cough.
The snow was not falling, but climbing
higher up the whiteout of my jaw line --
I closed my eyes and I was afraid,
crowed in a movie theatre, it's dark
there but that was okay
because it was meant to be like that.
But then it was no longer okay --
My lungs needed extra help, I did not have anyone
to press my irises against, to snapshot this moment with
and tuck it away in the splits of my left ribcage,
where these things belongs.
I wanted to butcher my heart with heavy calories,
I blinked and did not want to hate myself
anymore. I thought maybe,
cells are meant to be re-born
into something more like heartbeats
and chocolate cakes, made to be eaten and maybe
hipbones are meant to be private, for lovers only
to see them with their hands.
And maybe my sto