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Lightning Strike

By : February 14, 2021 Comments Off
“I’m gonna fall in love with you so fast,” she said, her eyes locked on mine. I could feel her heartbeat against my own. She was wrong, she never fell. I did.  It didn’t come quick and sudden like the movies say. No lightning-strike-epiphany of love. It crept up on me like old age. One day you can see, the next day you’re squinting at road signs. One day you wake up and getting out of bed doesn’t feel as easy. The entire world feels off, but it’s not the world on a tilt, it’s you.  A lighting strike did come. When she left. When she took everything that was hers except her mostly empty bottle of shampoo. The shampoo smelled like lavender. The kind that eases your weary thoughts.
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Tightrope

By : February 7, 2021 Comments Off
She loved me because I walked a tightrope. Always quaking on tipping tiptoes, ignoring the crowd below until she climbed up. I said get me down from here. Silver scissors sparkled. Her face was the last thing I saw as I  plummeted Down.
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Hateful Heart

By : February 7, 2021 Comments Off
Some people love with hatred in their hearts. When we associate passion with fire, we forget that all flames burn. Pull your fingertips away quickly, but they’re already singed. Yes, she smiled with all her teeth, like a child. But I think she’s lived a thousand lives. And she’s spent every one with her heart turning more twisted. Her eyes glisten like an innocent, but she loves to make you as damned as her. She’ll laugh at you for praying, turn your mother against you, and drop your favorite Christmas ball. She won’t even try to pick up the shattered shards. Because that would risk cutting her fingertips. And she is so fragile to you. So you gather the shards yourself and find the pale blue ornament is nothing but
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Proof-Reading Love

By : January 23, 2021 Comments Off
“Why are there always so many spelling mistakes in those long quotes about love?” she asks, her nose scrunching up. “I guess it’s hard to type when you’re in love,” I say, and look up from my book into her dark eyes. I want to add that it’s hard to breathe when you’re in love. And hard to walk in a straight line and hard to have just one drink when you’re alone and in love. Because every time I’ve been in love I’ve been alone. “But proof-reading is really important,” she says, squirming in the mint green armchair by the window. “Maybe it’s better not to proof-read love,” I say, and she rolls her eyes. “You poets always say stuff like that.”  She’s right. But what matters more is
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Autumn

By : January 9, 2021 Comments Off
I met her when her hair was dyed red. She wore a long brown coat and a black scarf. She was autumn in a person, and yet I wondered why she chilled me to my bones. Her kiss was soft but burnt. She tasted like ashes and danced like a blooming phoenix. I still remember her firestorm on the dance floor, and yet I wondered why I still find sparks on the back of my tongue at night. She wouldn’t have known love even if it pleaded with her as much as I did. She told me she dreamed of escape. Escaping her mother. Escaping her boyfriend. Escaping the natural brown of her hair and escaping the way the season in her head wouldn’t change. And yet I wondered why
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Yellow

By : January 4, 2021 Comments Off
Mae’s wife loves yellow roses. In fact, she loves the color yellow in all forms. The sweet scent of honeysuckle blesses her with a yellow glow from strolling through the woods. Mae’s wife talks to herself in the woods. Soon, she’ll talk to herself in the house, too. Every morning she swallows a spoonful of honey. “It’s good for you,” she insists, then giggles like a little girl. Mae buys yellow roses for every vase in the house. Yellow petals fall on pill bottles lined up like a parade. “Flowers are a gift to the home,” Mae says, and paints over the spots in the walls, and puts down rugs to hide the knots in the wooden floors. The smell of roses hugs the home year-round and when yellow flames
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