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Literature
Our Issues
Your heart grew up in a black wooden box
and thought it fabulous,
its world of
right angles,
wood grain,
and eternal night.
It hated me when I bored the hole
that let the sun singe its eyes, cook its skin,
when rain collected the dirt on its skin
in a puddle beneath its feet and said:
"look how dirty you are, foul thing."
It hated and
hated and
still hates,
always crawling
under any
box it finds.
I kicked it
out of its hiding place.
It ran out howling, hating and being
ha
Literature
Mother
My mother is a falling star. Leaving all that is golden about her in her trail until she is nothing but blackness, or maybe a grey rock that crashes through a window and into someone's loft.
She was the bubbling youth, all the freshness of spring and attractiveness of summer molded into a human being. At least that's how I remember her. It's not how my siblings will. They might treasure memories of dinners and bed-time stories the way I treasure the memory of girl's night out with the daughter in tow.
I always found falling stars sad. Bleeding out all their glitter on the way down to rock hard ground. Going from something I always imagined
Literature
The First Epiphanical
The First Epiphanical
It stirred, rising up from a dreamless slumber into the dull and barren plane of existence that constituted the real world. The only degree of separation between the two was that in one it felt desire, the will to carry out one process that drove the creature's entire existence. It felt hunger. The singular nature of this objective was one of the reasons that it and its kind thrived down here in the inhospitable depths that they may have called, were they able to do so, home. The key was a simple form of logic, the likes of which is often questioned and subsequently discredited in certain circles by certain sentient org
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