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This is just a little snippet of writing. Maybe poetry? Maybe a micro-fiction? I don't really know. I've also realized how a lot of my work is really depressing, but I'm really a generally cheerful person! I suppose the dark side of my personality comes through in my writing. Ha!


Submitted:Dec 17, 2012    Reads: 8    Comments: 0    Likes: 0   


The ticking of the clock is ringing in her ears, and as much as she tries to shout it out and send it fleeing, the metronome marches on. Young hands so very much alive and new tremble slightly as she shifts her position on the tired old couch. Her eyes meet the foreboding windowpane, the ever present reminder that she has trapped herself inside this room and is very much alone. Insecurities swell like a balloon, and obsession consumes her. Why is it that she can no longer bear to be alone? The time of year has not helped to soothe the aching wounds upon her spirit. There seemed to always be a way of hiding. Why shouldn't she let her whole self blossom and explode and break free from this feeble minded worry? She rises from her resting place and treads carefully across the room, trying to shake herself from the thoughts now swirling like a rising wave within her skull. She feels raw bone begin to crack as she takes her leave. The stairs crumble beneath her now, but she glides with an elegant and haunting grace, eyes fixated ahead, never looking back. Alive. She feels so alive, and her life bursts through her fingertips like the morning sun's first glow. How can she feel so alone? They are laughing. They wrap their tarnished hands around her limbs; misty spectors of a haunted past. The laughter rings so loudly that she soon falls to her knees, hands pressed tightly over aching ears.

Who is here for her now?


What will it take?


Two years?


Ten years?


How hard it has been to feel no love. Not a single soul to touch her. Not a single life to share. Just loneliness and herself. Trapped inside lonliness and herself. She finds the strength to rise once again. Bare feet hit the cold floor, startling the slumbering boards. Just then, a bubbling flame lept wildly from her heart. It rose higly on the wind, leaping from place to place across space and time and engulfing the walls around her. In the midst of the greedy flame, the girl wept. She wept silently, and brilliant shades of gold and scarlet danced upon the teardrops racing down her tired face.



The walls they burned like paper, and her skin it did the same. And before you knew it, the girl had lost what she became. Her skeleton was beautiful, though blackened by the flames, and like the night and stars and sun, no one was left to blame.





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