literature

innocence, the lack thereof or

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Literature Text

« innocence, the lack thereof, or the last boy to fuck me in a parking lot. »

it's awkward. grabbing my shoulders with a sharp but caring jerk (such a grief attempt to rid me of sad. no oh.) with such earnest eyes that could not even look at me a moment before. but of course there are thoughts and assumptions of abuse. i can see everything in his eyes when i dare to look. i can feel my suffering hurts him. « won't you please forgive them ? » but it is not a them which i refuse to forgive. it is not a person or an object. i simply cannot and will not forgive the world for taking you from me.

(calm, now)

i hung leaves from my ceiling. they just sit there. the same goddamn place. twirling softly in the draft of this awful place. one could easily call them depressing, but they're not sad to me. they remind me of autumn. and autumn - the cold air, the fog, the scent of freshly fallen leaves - reminds me of you. it makes me believe that maybe one day we'll be standing together on a curb somewhere. cars driving past with their tires clashing wonderfully with the rainy streets. you'd probably be smoking and i would just stare at you looking off somewhere else. and i would be dying (to hold your hand).

i would easily be able to not see this day end. i could lie here until the leaves from my ceiling fall and bury me. a perfect grave, i would want to claim. but no. there's always been a lingering sense of hope. it's dim and faded, but it's the most precious thing i have. there is nothing more important and beautiful to me than that hope - that little idea that seems like the secrets i'd write to the girl on the other side of the wall (like falling stars caught with fish nets - the truest form my heart can take. but nothing could be more impossible).

so now. (at night) when it's kind of cold and not nearly dark enough (the street lamps' light still slinking through the curtains). dust illuminated nonchalantly. i'll find myself just lying there, staring at the ceiling and the leaves... with no real direction of thought (except what i might have done wrong), but then it hits me. hard and fast like pesticides to the stomach ( « bye-bye, butterflies » ). a wave of flawless anguish - the purest form of nausea. and i hope through crying and grief-induced convulsing i can somehow rid myself of that little spot under my ribcage. but it's not a pain you can cry out. it's the lack of having anything that makes it so hard handle.

so i lie there, in complete fear that maybe you've forgotten me. And i promise myself that i will never sleep again. but i do fall asleep, i always do. and i dream of you and i giving each other red balloons and freeing giraffes from the zoo. and in those moments before i wake are the most intense feelings of grief i have ever felt. i would run screaming and crying through the complex of my mind, just to keep that feeling. And i would beg to my grave.. « please, please, please don't ever let me lose this thought.. »
yeah. just a rewritten version thing of something old. based on a letter to kevin, the things he writes, and stuff. and yes. he inspired everything - as i never write.

contrariwise to what i just said.. i wrote a story for french class (already graded, so it's not like i'm cheating) and need help with editing. if anyone here is fluent french and wishes to help me - i just want to illustrate a little book with the words and i want them to make as much sense as possible without translating it back to english. because it's prettier in french. yes.

by the way.. critique is nice, but it's not required. phrasing and words and stuff is what i want to work on mostly.. (:
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Maurya2's avatar
WOW....an amazing piece of work..honest and hard..that takes gut's dear lady..real guts..:horns: