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I would have onceHer smile was more of an unruly, lopsided grin, and her pristine broken-window eyes slipped secrets of distrust.She's like a sister to me.Her languished (lavished) words were by far plentiful enough to connect with any soul, and my ears could never help but hear.She's like the snippy, chill wind of late autumn.Her posture is assuredly purposeful, lanky as if self-aware, laid back as if she doesn't care. She never covers her freckles and she always presents her larger nose.We don't talk anymore.Her hands are long, ravishingly ratioed with an imperfect palm to fingertip length, appearing graceful.I'd write sonnets to exalt her, I'd clean up after her messes, once upon a time.
My Heels Don't FitIt was like self-inflicted torture raw bones rubbing sinews on sour leather. The brutalities of the damned on a twisted iPod demanding relief. Brimstone and fire of repentance rampant in proud, stinging tears. Mutilation at its finest. I don't remember What it is like to feel free.
The TransitIt isn't the place I am going, but the transit from the place I am in, that pains me. I didn't know that footsteps could sound lonely, that I would need to find new words for break and shatter to describe the inconsolable feeling of my ability to speak being ripped away molecule by molecule. I didn't know familiar routes could be disdained, that embarrassing events could be yearned for, a solemn sniffle and tears, merely from conversations with kind strangers. Perhaps it is all going to be ok; but not, I think, today. Quite a shock, pleasant, though hesitant, to realize home is a fluid thing, moving with something it is impossible to follow every moment. Panic grips my mind. A rather unforgiving fiend, ache of my heart wrenches my guts and forces me to admit that I am not well, without certain things is only to make due. If only, the constancy of Chinese water torture. If only, the variety of road trips with no foreseeable end.