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smearedredlipstick
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Her Suicide Meant Nothing To Me
Category: Writing and Poetry
Her suicide meant nothing to me. I found her dead on a cold Saturday night, pale, long gone. She laid on the living room floor, but I didn’t bother to care how it happened. She must’ve taken something, from the way her mouth was left agape and her throat seemingly choked. It was no mystery, and I was not surprised this was the way she had fallen. In fact, i’ve partly been wishing on it. She left h... » Continue Reading
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Mary’s Dream On Sleeping Pills
Category: Writing and Poetry
Mary opened her eyes to two strange things. Two strange, familiar things One, an apron, and two, a warm-light kitchen. Both strange, for she had not put an apron in years, since Ben only bought the couple fast-food leftovers for dinner, and for the fact that this very kitchen was one she had not seen in the longest time. This kitchen was home, the home with John. Though Mary was surprised, her fo... » Continue Reading
Here, There and Everywhere: A letter to my Ben
Category: Writing and Poetry
You are a lover that I cannot love. You are a lover that I do not want to love. Which, that statement itself confuses even myself. To a point, and to an outside perspective, there is no doubt that I do have love for you. But to me, the love I hold for you is only one to ease the aching I have in my heart, not to truly want you, and have you, but to share the one thing I live for, the one thing I c... » Continue Reading
My Deflowering, Turning Of Purity, Start Of Whoreness
Category: Writing and Poetry
“It’s late, are you sure I should still be here?” Steven let me stay at his before my parents got home. My parents worked late. He was friendly, and he was trusting, so I never questioned staying here without really a given permission. It was like staying at a good friends house. Steven was 28 years old, and I may have been 11, but he was still my friend. He was nice to me. Not a lot of people are... » Continue Reading
Take Out
Category: Writing and Poetry
I do the same three things every night when I get home. Sink, strip, and shed. I sink into my sadness. It’s not really something that goes away anyway, follows me dawn till dusk. Just gets much worse when I’m alone. Being alone makes me sad, really sad. All I can do is wallow in a stupid stance the moment I open my door, gazing on the room I barely clean around. It’s like the floor is one big gia... » Continue Reading
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My Calender, 18th
Category: Writing and Poetry
I’ll count the days on my calendar for pleasure every day, on this day, leading up to the number I am the calendar, I am the memory Rows and rows across my sleeve Minutes are what I bleed The aftermath on the floor The days I spent waiting Punctured on my skin, grey memoirs grey into red that fades as time ahead Still resemble my growing patience My sin was overdue My sin, the highest crime I » Continue Reading
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God’s Letter To Mary
Category: Writing and Poetry
Mary, you really have nothing to live for I know what you do when you’re alone You’re always alone Nobody else knows, but I do I know that Mary can buy ecstasy for just five dollars I know she can get lsd for just three And I definitely know she wants the seroquel She can get that only for ten And I know damn well she needs it You’re nothing but shit now Mary You sit on your ass You eat once a d... » Continue Reading
$5
Category: Writing and Poetry
Getting high would be a lot more comforting if you were here » Continue Reading
What Good Are You?
Category: Writing and Poetry
I look into your eyes and see nothing but pupils. In his I saw life, love and desire. When your skin touches mine, I don’t feel any warmth, and if anything, I just your feel sweat. I thought it was supposed to feel good, being in someone’s arms, but when i’m in yours I just want to push you away. I don’t know why I let you, it’s not like I like it, and it’s not like I like you, but being alone is ... » Continue Reading
Don’t Pull My Underwear, Ben
Category: Writing and Poetry
You feel cruel, Ben I just want to drink, I just want to feel I don’t want your hands on me I don’t want to do what you want to do I don’t want anything with you You have no warmth, Ben I just want to sleep, I just want to dream I don’t want your body on mine I don’t want your touch Won’t you just beat it? You make me sick, Ben I just want to feel pretty, I just want fake love » Continue Reading
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The Leech That Hangs Onto Mr.Banks
Category: Writing and Poetry
Mr.Banks wakes up to the same feeling every morning. Gnawing, chewing, blood-sucking, there is nothing more that he expects the minute he opens his eyes. The leech drains him, morning to night. It lays on the floor, hanging onto the skin of his forearm. Mr.Banks rises from his bed, and as he drags the leech from the floor, and the leech drags his forearm down. Mr.Banks has lived like this for an... » Continue Reading