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Literature Text
I left you with solemn face
but underneath I wept
Marching on to a war
where the ones who died were poor
Without my memories of you
I can't have survived, it's true
So when I came back home
It killed me when I found out
the one who died was you
but underneath I wept
Marching on to a war
where the ones who died were poor
Without my memories of you
I can't have survived, it's true
So when I came back home
It killed me when I found out
the one who died was you
Literature
A Photographic Dream
The faded black and white photograph sits idly on the vanity. My exact likeness stares out at me from within the flowered frame. We stare at each other, admiring the intricate feature we share. She seems to understand how lucky I was to inherit such beauty from her, the ideal embodiment of femininity. A sort of arrogance glints in her eyes; her plump lips seem to smirk. Her creamy, alabaster skin glows with confident. She is aloof, to say the least. I know everything about this woman, my grandmother, as well as myself, by this photograph. I am the spitting image of her. I know that I am much more than my sorry excuse of a mother. I know t
Literature
Dreams
A caustically fabricated memory sets a spark in the first exhalation of morning (afternoon?) and she has the urge to cry.
To think that dreams -nightmares- could hold her heart with such terrible claws (but the thoughts of him hold reigns so tightly on her back; he knows many pretty women, and it's only natural to worry after the undressing, the holding hands, the crying in front of him). To think that even sleep, once repose, could beckon tears and heart-shivers and immobility.
She ponders why, all of a sudden, sleep is frightening again.
Perhaps it's the empathy of her nature. She feels heart-wrenching guilt for moments long past; sh
Literature
Wanting and Having
It's been a while since he's let himself want something. Even longer since he's admitted to it.
She wishes to be one of the vast majority who give up on him after the first icy glare. But she's never been a part of any majority so why should she start now?
He just needs some sort of reaction—anything. So he is unnecessarily cruel to her, just like how he is with everyone. People are all the same. He always gets to them in the end. Part of him, the secret part, hopes that she doesn't let him get away with it.
She sees him at the coffee shop slipping a note onto the counter while the elderly man fumbles uselessly for change in his pock
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