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Literature Text
She is ice-cold, my snow-girl. Ice-cold, and snow-white, as beautiful as the frost-rimed spiderswebs lacing our tree. Ice-cold.
I wrapped her in my coat - see? - but still she holds the Winter in her heart, clings to the ice and the snow and the frost and the steel-surgical-blue of the sky, blue as her eyes (roll back her eyelids, see for yourself. As blue as betrayal, my snow-girl's eyes), and she will not warm herself, no, not for all my asking.
I wrapped her in my coat, and I wound my scarf around her neck three times (you see? Three. Three is lucky. Three threes is magic, but my scarf is not that long), but still she holds the ice and the snow and the frost at the heart of her and she will not warm herself, no, not for all my pleading.
I wrapped her in my coat, and I wound my scarf around her neck, and I covered her feet (you see? Such tiny feet, my snow-girl has. So small. Like doll's feet, china-white), but still she holds the Winter in the heart of her, and she will not wake and she will not warm herself, not for all my praying.
I wrapped her in my coat, and I wound my scarf around her neck, and I covered her feet, and I lay down beside her and wrapped my arms around her and gave her my warmth and my breath (see? Feel my hand, see how cold I am. That warmth, I gave to her), but still she holds the frost and the snow and the ice and the blue sky and the Winter at the heart of her, and she will not wake and she will not warm herself, not for all my gifting.
But she is beautiful, my snow-girl, with the frost riming her eyelashes and the snowflakes in her hair. Ice-cold and beautiful.
And I?
I am old and ugly, tired and full of sleep.
And I am oh-so cold.
I wrapped her in my coat - see? - but still she holds the Winter in her heart, clings to the ice and the snow and the frost and the steel-surgical-blue of the sky, blue as her eyes (roll back her eyelids, see for yourself. As blue as betrayal, my snow-girl's eyes), and she will not warm herself, no, not for all my asking.
I wrapped her in my coat, and I wound my scarf around her neck three times (you see? Three. Three is lucky. Three threes is magic, but my scarf is not that long), but still she holds the ice and the snow and the frost at the heart of her and she will not warm herself, no, not for all my pleading.
I wrapped her in my coat, and I wound my scarf around her neck, and I covered her feet (you see? Such tiny feet, my snow-girl has. So small. Like doll's feet, china-white), but still she holds the Winter in the heart of her, and she will not wake and she will not warm herself, not for all my praying.
I wrapped her in my coat, and I wound my scarf around her neck, and I covered her feet, and I lay down beside her and wrapped my arms around her and gave her my warmth and my breath (see? Feel my hand, see how cold I am. That warmth, I gave to her), but still she holds the frost and the snow and the ice and the blue sky and the Winter at the heart of her, and she will not wake and she will not warm herself, not for all my gifting.
But she is beautiful, my snow-girl, with the frost riming her eyelashes and the snowflakes in her hair. Ice-cold and beautiful.
And I?
I am old and ugly, tired and full of sleep.
And I am oh-so cold.
Literature
to the girl with hungry footsteps
I'm sending all my words back
to the people who need them--
people who wear scars like
war trophies, like jewelry, like
an identification for those suffering
from the same acceptance of
self-hate. this is to the people
who sleep with one eye open, who
cry when footsteps enter their room
at night; this is to the girls
who love by cutting their hearts
into snowflakes and watching
them melt. I left you behind and
I can't be sorry for that.
you are the type of beautiful
that kindly asks the world
to fuck off. the days we buried
have decomposed, headstones are
snapshots; sanitized breakdowns,
rusty tongues, sighs laced
with fear, I love you, I
Literature
Girl Leaving a Bar
the wind picked pace
she could feel the sound
of the music, very
distant now
he was telling her
about his sister
fingers sliding
through her hair
like water
saying, "You remind me,"
"You remind me."
it was too early
for spring
bare branches
stir with a sudden
turn of crooked fingers
as a car passes,
shedding light
on broken glass
last night she dreamed
of lions
Literature
The Ghost of Emily White
The cemetery never changed, or at least not very much. The trees and hedges were trimmed every few years, and when Scott was six, they started turning off the water butts in the winter because the pipes froze, and so did the streams that the local boys used to make by overfilling the water butt at the top of the part that sloped. The weather changed, of course, and the plants and the animals with it. Sometimes a new grave was added. When Scott was ten, his grandmother was buried there.
Sometimes he popped in to see her on the way home from school, just as he always used to. He missed being able to see and hear her, but it wasn’t s
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Because getting random depressing images at 1am is clearly a sign you should write random prose, right?
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Comments40
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Great work.
So pleased to read your current writings once more.
Jer
So pleased to read your current writings once more.
Jer