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Literature Text
You're the white rabbit of tricks and tease,
I am the black cat of addiction.
You provoke my curiosity;
becoming my new obsession.
You're baiting the hunt and enticing the chase, silly rabbit;
don’t you know you’re flirting with defeat?
A dangerous game you’re insisting to play,
for I could destroy you within a heartbeat.
For now I’ll bide my time by stalking sly and subtle;
patiently observing your daring dance that makes my belly rumble.
But take warning, precious little cottontail;
for in my claws you'll surely stumble...
I am the black cat of addiction.
You provoke my curiosity;
becoming my new obsession.
You're baiting the hunt and enticing the chase, silly rabbit;
don’t you know you’re flirting with defeat?
A dangerous game you’re insisting to play,
for I could destroy you within a heartbeat.
For now I’ll bide my time by stalking sly and subtle;
patiently observing your daring dance that makes my belly rumble.
But take warning, precious little cottontail;
for in my claws you'll surely stumble...
Literature
Faeriefire
We all hid when the faeries dueled.
You and I were in the closet, wishing to each other half-secretly among the motes that the duels could be rare as dragons, at least. Instead they were only rare as quarter-moons.
Ground liquifies, sometimes, during a duel. The stars brighten and fall faster, leaving holes in the ground and setting forests alight. The sun hides in a bird’s nest, they say.
We did not see when the damage was done. We were accustomed to avoiding to know even the names of those who fought. Our eyes were far from windows.
But duels always ended the day after they began, and we stepped
Literature
Paper-Thin Promises
the first time I caught sight of your
glistening, marble eyes,
I decided you disgust me.
I hate you the way I hate perfection:
merciless, like the snap of mantis jaws.
every fact of you is pretentious,
held high like you raise a middle finger.
You, the artist, always sculpting things,
tried to squeeze my malleable heart like white clay
and stash it in your pocket to rattle with stones.
paint me an unflinching self portrait, my dear:
this skyscraper of a boy shaking with anticipation
to build and destroy, build and destroy.
you sink in tooth and talon at first mention of beauty,
love-biting Aphrodite as though you were equals.
you're a statu
Literature
Shallow Water
It was just a little kiddie pool in the backyard, unlovely pink-and-yellow plastic under the hot summer sun. But on those nights when Mom came home from the swing shift tired and met Daddy sitting in the kitchen angry, it was Amy’s only sanctuary.
She wasn’t a sound sleeper. Her parents still talked about how it had taken her infant self six months to sleep more than two or three hours at a time. During the school year, when her life was full of classes and friends and sports, it was easier to drop off, but summer nights were always more difficult. They were hotter, for one thing, and the long, indolent, inactive days often left
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Comments2
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Absolutely wonderful. Fantastic imagery, rhythm, and wordplay.