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Literature Text
see my hair dance wild as wind-strings jerk it about//hear the ocean-wind heave itself against us all- crashing into our eyes and mouth//feel the winter-wind brush our skins in summer//then inhale the heaviness of air and sink through the dirt- because darling, you don’t deserve god’s beautiful violence.
(it drags the tree by its leaves saying kiss your trunk, kiss it and it does; releasing with a snap. the other trees flitter-flutter violently, crying within the cacophony of rain on concrete. white stars fall where light exists, and only sound where it disappears. the sky -the colour of sunburnt skin- watches it all with hunger. and then a moment we are swallowed. gumtrees, rain, earth; we are all night sky now. but our eyes open and the rain is no more, dew on grass. and the wind is no more, only breath.)
(it drags the tree by its leaves saying kiss your trunk, kiss it and it does; releasing with a snap. the other trees flitter-flutter violently, crying within the cacophony of rain on concrete. white stars fall where light exists, and only sound where it disappears. the sky -the colour of sunburnt skin- watches it all with hunger. and then a moment we are swallowed. gumtrees, rain, earth; we are all night sky now. but our eyes open and the rain is no more, dew on grass. and the wind is no more, only breath.)
Literature
ocean burning.
one.
before she met you, she would reach for the sun while standing on the branches of trees, arms stretched towards the sunlight, reaching and waiting.
now, happiness is like a summer memory in the dead of winter - still there, but fading too fast to hold onto. now, she sits on rooftops with you at night, and the two of you watch as the city lights go out one by one.
two.
sometimes, when you laughed, she was reminded of the wind rushing through trees in winter - melodic and beautiful, but still cold, unforgiving.
the two of you watched the waves of the ocean take away the beach, piece by piece.
you were the waves.
she was the sand.
t
Literature
midnight.
it is midnight and the clocks are chiming in the almost-silence. the sky feels like rain and somewhere, some girl is dancing and laughing and smiling, but she's certainly not me.
our hearts are cold. they've been sleeping, curled into themselves for too long without a blanket or a pillow or a smile to fall back on. it's midnight and the sky feels like rain and there's going to be a storm later,
but it won't match the storms inside, that's for sure.
we are biting our nails, smiling and pretending nothing is wrong and saying, yes, darling, i'll get rid of this horrible habit in the morning. it'll all be better tomorrow,
except it's midnight
Literature
tragedies.
you deserve all the cobweb dreams,
fairytale hopes, and explosive love
in the world, but i know that i
will never be the one
to give them to you.
you need notes that end with
'ps - you're brighter than
twenty-seven silver stars'.
i can't bring myself
to write them, though.
it's not like you'd read them,
anyway.
i cut out paper hearts and
dreams and gave them to you, but
you only ripped them up and said
'these aren't good enough.'
when i painted you a picture
of golden skies and sunshine smiles,
you handed it back and told me
'next time, paint realistically.'
so i wrote you a story
filled of starless nights and
hopeless d
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i let the storm soak through until it ran down in rivers down my skin. never leave, i ached, the world is ours in moments like this. then the wind made promises it wouldn't keep in my ears.
and the storm was no more, only me.
and the storm was no more, only me.
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