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Literature
lxiv. cold canvas
on a cold canvas
they painted with their blades
sketching pictures with their footprints
sharing tales with each step
    every scene was a risk building up to a climax
    until the ground in which they stood becomes more than a rink
    more than a stage
    in that moment every turn, every movement
                                        
        f a l l s
        into
        place
    a portrait is made
            from ice that crack but do not break
            from feet that bruise but do not wear
            from flowers that fa
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Literature
five months and twenty one days
To: pansydiv 
Divya,
change loves to come in drastic degrees
impatient and uncaring
it doesn’t wait for us to notice them
im sorry, i couldn’t catch up with mine
im sorry, things haven’t quite been the same
im sorry that this goes for both of us
my days flash forward with brute force
and my weeks hurriedly grouped themselves into months
please know that no matter what,
it was never my intention to lose touch
(but even my apologies sound trite to me)
it’s been hard to feel anything at all
my ceiling stares down at me like it’s
imploring me to get out of bed
but why would i leave
when suffocation is so relaxing
(enough about me)
you’ve spoken kindly in every occasion,
in our exchange of words, you’ve always been more fluent
more floral
and more meaningful
im just a bunch of lost words whispered into tangled bed sheets
im just pillow talk
i hope you’re okay
(i hope you’re not okay)
i hope you’ve regained w
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[06. desktop] by vvinter-flowers [06. desktop] :iconvvinter-flowers:vvinter-flowers 5 0
Literature
.
jealousy used to write me love letters that were sweet and lonely
during the winter, she talked about presents and joyful carols
by autumn she'd move on to the colorful leaves and tinted orange skies
in a way, i could tell she was being considerate of me
she respected my selfishness and reminded me when i needed comfort
she knew about my sensitivity so she wrote to me in gentle tones
my stubbornness, however, only ever saw helping hands as suicide
that's why i've been secretly stealing her words
to make sure i would have something to say
in fear that if i remained too silent, i too would be buried in the snow
but while I hid behind my scripted replies to 'how are you's
and cornered myself in the peripheral view of others
i felt my timid smile turn too heavy to lift
an unmistakable lump clogged down my throat
i realize i've been suffocating my insides
eventually jealousy wrote to me love letters that were dismal and indignant
she explained to me her bitter feelings about spring and how
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screen-oo by vvinter-flowers screen-oo :iconvvinter-flowers:vvinter-flowers 13 0 screen-03 by vvinter-flowers screen-03 :iconvvinter-flowers:vvinter-flowers 10 6
Literature
lxiii.
And it's not how I start my sentences midway
or how I repeat my point over and over
It's not when I have nothing more to say
nor when I have too much to confess
None of these things will amount to my insecurities
All the marks on my legs or evolution on my skin
maybe the size of my breast or my whole stature
maybe it's in the pitch of my voice
which make me sound like I'm 9
but maybe it's in the way I forgot how to smile
and forgot how to be a girl
so I put on dark clothes
loose shirts and leggings
I offer the fattest lie on the table
and sell to everyone that 'I'm okay'
I would try to negotiate that we don't need to be friends
and that you should just stand there and never come near me
I would sit them down and look them in the eye
"I am not good for you."
and
"You can't make me be."
and
"Shut up."
and
"I'm sorry."
and
I already said that it's not in the way I put things to words
Because I admit that I have a lot to say
but please don't believe me because they'll just
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Literature
change of heart
Every heart is hard wired with sweeping generalizations of love
it is neither idiocy or ignorance but human nature
we may aim be logical, to choose the best answer
but it is still our very own teary eyes that smudge the truth till the lines blur into gloomy clouds that tail after us
at this point logic becomes a foreign language and it becomes much easier to burry our restless heads into pillows than rationalize with our hearts.
our sense of self dissolves into rivers of doubt but it is through this process of destruction that we recreate ourselves.
Do not forgot to remind yourself that pain is a sign of health too.
Do not forget that in order for seeds to grow, we must break open ourselves.
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Literature
lxii.
    people like me
    we don't see our reflection in the mirror
    we see skin, unbrushed teeth, bed hair and we should warn you
    our image is not something you can catch in the light
        you can not see our bones                    
        or how our teeth turn into fences we shut the words in                    
        how our ribs are literal cages whose only use is to synthesize breath                    
       or how our facial muscles knit together draining a thousand watts to form a smile                    
        or our heartaches and silent laugh
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Literature
lxi.
6 AM
    I stir in bed,
    pulling the blankets over my head
    hating the feeling of cold bones of lead.
    (I keeps my eyes closed but I don’t go back to sleep because the truth is I don’t want to risk dreaming.)
6:05 AM
    It’s serene. It’s desolate. The world is hushed and intact.
    There are 2 plates on the table and a mug. A wet towel hung on one of the chairs, it takes a minute to put them all away. Coffee smells good at this time and the sun is soft-spoken as I am.
9 AM
    The house begins to awake. Footsteps are heard and the truth is still very quiet at this time.
11 AM
    My mothers scolds me because I’ve been listening to music too loudly again and she asks me to repeat what she just said and I lied and told her I heard her. She threatens to confiscate my headphones and I g
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[05 d e s k t o p] by vvinter-flowers [05 d e s k t o p] :iconvvinter-flowers:vvinter-flowers 7 4
Literature
.

History Maker
Dean Fujioka
.
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Literature
'to be apart from a part of you'
i like people with big smiles, the way they shine through their imperfect teeth and chapped lips
knowing you can't replicate their beauty
i like skies of white clouds against blue atmospheres,
the way the sun gives us privacy to cry with the rain
i like the sound of dried leaves under my boots, the crackling of bonfires and the crickets at nights
i smile at the way the city converges into fairy lights reflected on our side mirror
while my dad drives me off the highway to another place for us to call home
i like wiggling my toes in my shoes when i get nervous,
and rubbing my fists together to keep my hands occupied
i like taking pictures of my feet and writing on my arms and i've always focused more on the way the ink spreads through my skin rather than the words i write
i like the company of my friends, both the ones in my head and the ones who sit next to me in class
i like the conversations that don't have any meaning, the jokes and pranks and yelling at each other cause other people
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Literature
.
i turn my bones into twigs
break my own goddamn limbs
folding my arms and crossing my legs
just to fit in my little nest
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Literature
.
there's not much comfort in the cold silhouettes of my memories
after all, happiness is only ever relevant if you can feel it
i don't remember anymore the weight of your head resting on my shoulder
or the ache in my stomach whenever you cracked a good joke
i can only picture the past in my head
while most of the time i wonder if im daydreaming
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Literature
lx.
he likes his hair in a quiff
something i've always noticed since the dark brown in my eyes
keep drifting back to his
but i am not in love with him
my heart doesn't   q u i v e r   for him
        i do like his silly side
        like when he speaks in soft whispers
        and walks with no direction
        like when he brings his fingers up to his lips
        and bites his nails bit by bit
    there's also this funny way that he breathes
    the way he lets go of his breath when he exhales
    the way he likes to keep his clothes fresh
    and the way his jeans never matches his shirt
                    again
it's not as if i'm in love with him
my breath doesn't  h i t c h
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“I spent my life folded between the pages of books.In the absence of human relationships I formed bonds with paper characters. I lived love and loss through stories threaded in history; I experienced adolescence by association. My world is one interwoven web of words,stringing limb to limb, bone to sinew, thoughts and images all together. I am a being comprised of letters, a character created by sentences, a figment of imagination formed through fiction.”

- Shatter Me -

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:iconorphicallygenous:
Orphicallygenous Featured By Owner May 14, 2018  Professional Traditional Artist
Guuurrrl! How are youuuuu
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