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Literature Text
I will never be able to
be a good lover
because I can't answer
the questions.
"Why are you sad?"
I am currently
inside of your left elbow,
questioning the ways I
long for your flexibility. We
are two unequal sides of a triangle
but I don't know where the third one went;
we can't even take a proper shape. If I
have to look at you one
more
time
I think I might die. The masochist
in me really likes this.
"Oh, you know-
-what is
sadness anyway?"
My dear, you believe in
a heart that
takes to the air. Whereas
I am devoted to
skin
because everything underneath
is just ducking for cover.
be a good lover
because I can't answer
the questions.
"Why are you sad?"
I am currently
inside of your left elbow,
questioning the ways I
long for your flexibility. We
are two unequal sides of a triangle
but I don't know where the third one went;
we can't even take a proper shape. If I
have to look at you one
more
time
I think I might die. The masochist
in me really likes this.
"Oh, you know-
-what is
sadness anyway?"
My dear, you believe in
a heart that
takes to the air. Whereas
I am devoted to
skin
because everything underneath
is just ducking for cover.
Literature
Funeral
Funeral
A funeral was no place to have an epiphany. Epiphanies galvanise people into action and the only action you could get away with in a church pew was discreet fidgeting. Even that was considered unseemly when a heart-felt eulogy was being delivered by the deceased's mother, as Mary was finding out to her discomfort. The priest was beginning to shoot her dirty looks.
But really, as epiphanies went, it was a brilliant one. She couldn't believe she had taken this long to realise it. She was fat. Plain and simple. Mary was much too fat. It explained everything. Her husband had left her for a skinny bitch because she was fat, the universit
Literature
Questions I Never Asked My Grandfather
My grandfather sits in a wheelchair by the window in the old people's home with his chin leaned into his chest, mumbling incessantly and unintelligibly to himself and drooling a little from the right corner of his mouth. Mom can't come here anymore. She just breaks down at the sight of him so I sometimes come by myself and sit with him in silence for a while.
It's a sad end to a long and hard life, and I morbidly think to myself that if a political party stepped forth now with the legalization of euthanasia on its agenda, I'd vote for it. After two strokes and a hemorrhage, topped with severe senile dementia, what is the point of letting peo
Literature
Birdcage
Nothing ever happens the way you read in the history books. In war there are never two armies, there is only a field of men. Never a number of dead; but individual lives snuffed out. That is what the subject of history is, years shelved and decimalized. Birth and death, graphed to the simplicity of lines. Great wars a footnote to the next great war. The achievements of men and women plotted out against the bookmark of day, month and year.
And somewhere amongst this, my mother breathed. Somewhere danced in now long-closed nightclubs, laughed at jokes told by a younger version of my Father. And then the unpin-able moment she fell in love with
Suggested Collections
ahem. angst is getting out of control.
will try to find some buttercups for the next one
or come up with better excuses.
-
NaPo#2
will try to find some buttercups for the next one
or come up with better excuses.
-
NaPo#2
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Comments8
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"My dear, you believe in
a heart that
takes to the air. Whereas
I am devoted to
skin
because everything underneath
is just ducking for cover. "
those words- nicely done.
a heart that
takes to the air. Whereas
I am devoted to
skin
because everything underneath
is just ducking for cover. "
those words- nicely done.