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we talked to fill the space.
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the irregularities of my ribcage are quirky and anything but endearing,
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we inhaled a whole new breed of oxygen and swore we could outrun the pull of reality that struggled to make us realise that vows made after midnight are oft forgot by morning;
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we are the kids who feel like dead ends,
wandering through the echoes of street
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all the times you pretended not to hear me when I spoke and laughed when I cried
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and I wandered for days with the stories and fuck-ups and self-loathing carved into my arms for all those who cared to see.
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I trembled as the poison contaminated my blood stream and blurred the line between my reality and yours. I swallowed the words that stung like salt on an open wound, and I cried.
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this prose is probably worth about as much as the paper it's written on, and yet I can't stem the flow of all the metaphors and imagery that tell the story of all the ways I'm broken inside, why I find respiration superfluous
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there are a thousand different ways you can define the act of breathing, or crying, or screaming, or just giving up, but there's only one way that I can tell you my lungs are being crushed and my ribs are splintering and my h
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before we grew up, when nightmares were still scary, but not as frightening as the suspense of waiting for someone to find you in a game of hide and seek,
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there was always something bigger than us, that crept up when we covered our eyes playing hide and seek. we let it seep into our grandiose plans and infect them with a sense of perpetuity, and suddenly the notion of running a
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and there were all those days I sat and wondered why the world couldn't comprehend the simplicity of breathing and loving and dancing and screaming just for the fun of shattering the atmosphere and waiting for the reverb.
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she dreamed in technicolour, seeing the way the world would
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the seventeen summers of my superfluous existance suddenly make sense, and I can't fathom what triggered my respiration before your kaleido
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there's a hum in the air that isn't quite silence and isn't quite static, but I can feel it getting louder now as it creeps through the s
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we played hide and seek until the air grew chilly and we couldn't feel our fingertips, and then we laughed at the absurdity of it all; seventeen years old and we still couldn't accept the necessity of breathing or the need fo
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the air does something to my worn-out lungs that tells me of the changing month. the calendar is still back in january, but I can count the days on my fingertips and that's never a good sign.
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because when I was little, I used to believe the sky could breathe and the clouds could be naughty, and as I swung as high as I could on the creaky old swingset, I tried to kick them, but my tiny feet never made it past the t
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you are burnt out phone lines and stinging concrete and obscurity at its best.
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we exploded into existance, like the personification of the big bang theory, only we were limited to the confines of my bedroom walls. we were beyond comprehension, just like every other paradoxical teenage romance ever trans
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and in my mind, as I watched yet another cigarette burn itself out in your trembling fingertips, I carefully composed the eulogy they'd rea
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she writes because he told her one day the world was going to end, and no one would ever understand the chaos that scattered her brain unless she put pen to paper and poured out the similes and metaphors that screamed for exp
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she was the little girl that climbed up on a chair every morning to see if her reflection had changed yet. her wistful little eyes sank dow
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when we were little, I took you all the way up to the rooftop and told you right then and there that I would teach you how to fly, and we could both escape all the yelling and screaming and fighting and just live on the fucki
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I never quite knew whether to read you as fact or fiction.
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i. you blinked away all the reasons I ever had for sleeping with a nightlight when you stared at me until my irises wavered and said,
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you were an enigma, plain and simple.
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the disillusionment is creeping under my skin like a disease and the minutes are eating away at the shreds of sanity you let me keep when you shattered my sense of self.
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I spun webs like stories around your absence in an attempt to convince myself you weren't
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once upon a time I taught you how to hold me just right so the winter chills were swallowed by sweaty palms and tracing fingers. the crumpled bed sheets reminded me of you even once you had disappeared through the window.
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