TrixbeeCassiGirl

I planted the seeds For a new burning garden Lots of little flames you can tend Out here where the sun is. You’re still asleep In that same spot I left you You’ve got the blanket so far over your head I pull it back so you can breathe. But you’re so Far Gone By now. You’ve been sleeping for days And I’m just waiting for you To wake. And You tied me Up My Love, now You’ve all gone to waste And it’s breaking me slowly Apart. A shaken soul will see what it wants No matter what’s really there A tightened rope and low heavy branch Can’t hold what we don’t care I’m still too yo

I know you practice sleeping a thousand times a night. I tell you, you've got to close your eyes but oh, you close them so tight. Now shadows stain your face, these days, and you don't seem to care-- all you do is stare and stare. I'd love to tell you to close your eyes but you'd close them oh, too tight.

 He could feel her eyes on him, even across the room. Unblinking. The room pounded with silence of it all—what was it about libraries that caused such stillness? The deafness refused to be broken by the muffled shuffling of pages, a rustle here and there, behind him, a muted cough. The quiet was a heavy blanket laid down over them all. But still he could feel her gaze, loud in its fierceness. When he looked up at her, he saw—or thought he saw—cat’s eyes, slitted, unflinching, observing; and they were her eyes. They bore out of her dark skin like gold coins against night sky. She winked slyly at him. He blinked back. I

What a strange place you brought me to on the days of my travels. I only meant to visit but now I mean to stay. You've got a hotel heart, you know. The halls were unfamiliar at first but a few days later it was home. Makes me wonder if it's not too bad to stay in one place for long In a place where everyone knows your name and a place where you can say the same.

To be a hero is to do things quietly and with great strength, Soft with the hand of peace and firm with the fist of power. To be a hero is to love, and to hate the love of evil. So I am a villain instead, loving to hate.

     He knew her, really knew her. In a way, he thought she was sad. Tragically so. But she was sad in such an intense way, in a way he had never seen before, and so it was beautiful.     He liked to talk about her to his friends, even though they just didn’t know her like he did. He would tell them that he was addicted to her. She was a drug and she didn’t even know it. They didn’t understand. “She’s not that pretty,” Jarod told him one time.     “She’s not supposed to be pretty,” He could only reply. “She’s supposed to make you feel. That’s how you know she’s

I was seventeen when my sister fell asleep I’m nineteen and a hundred now and she’s just waking up I spent two years too awake and so tired but awake for her sake and mine When she fell asleep, she was quiet but I found words in my ear they spiraled out of reason, control they were hurt and they hurt I wanted her to rest, to be okay that’s how it was fixed she took liberties with her time and dreamed on the absence of mine. It was so heavy, holding her in my arms she slept so happily there and I was worried she might not wake before my arms grew tired and fell                

He couldn’t stop thinking about that orange purse—what a hideous shade of orange, so bright and raw, like miscolored and tacky lipstick—the shape of that orange purse. It looked so fat, so fat, fat and orange, like a troll, a smooth, hairless troll. The lady who had been carrying it was nice. She looked soft, kind. She had the young kind of walk of someone who was lost in their thoughts, and pleasant ones, because a small smile was tugging at her lips, slightly creasing her dark skin. He thought she looked powerful, but gentle, all at the same time. The orange, orange orange purse, ugly as it was, looked fashionable in her

Raw emotion is not a beautiful thing That moves your heart to tears. It is a thing that brings to light the pain, the salt and the fears that cause your eyes to water. Yes, they are tears but what shameful tears they are.

Today I realized that my mother was a tragedy. All mothers were, in fact. I never really thought much about the implications of motherhood. It was a part of life, I had been taught. As a young woman, you hear so many things: things about dresses, things about hair, things about the guy you like, things about how to attract the guy you like, things about how to make marriage work, things about how to raise your children right, things about how to age gracefully, things about how to maintain your figure, etc. In long car rides, when my mother has a lot on her mind, I always somehow end up alone with her, and she talks about things. Things lik