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Literature Text
forgiveness is the
scent the violet leaves
on the foot that stomped it;
I am beautiful in remembrance:
I am beautiful
in a body two sizes too
large, in eyes dilated
with questions (eyes
you cannot name; gray
like the ocean, blue
like the heart, green like
the fever dream I cannot
wake from) I am the
hair of a lion, a wild
thing, ignition upon
tempted glance. I am the skin
you cannot name, always fleeting;
the chameleon
you always see
but never truly take in.
and I know a boy
carved of ivory silence,
hollowed hungry by the
cruelty of those with
time to spare. his eyes are
starved unblinking, he calls me
beautiful.
I am
louder than my bruises, brighter
than the shadows under my eyes;
I am
beautiful
and I forgive
myself
for all I’ve
done.
scent the violet leaves
on the foot that stomped it;
I am beautiful in remembrance:
I am beautiful
in a body two sizes too
large, in eyes dilated
with questions (eyes
you cannot name; gray
like the ocean, blue
like the heart, green like
the fever dream I cannot
wake from) I am the
hair of a lion, a wild
thing, ignition upon
tempted glance. I am the skin
you cannot name, always fleeting;
the chameleon
you always see
but never truly take in.
and I know a boy
carved of ivory silence,
hollowed hungry by the
cruelty of those with
time to spare. his eyes are
starved unblinking, he calls me
beautiful.
I am
louder than my bruises, brighter
than the shadows under my eyes;
I am
beautiful
and I forgive
myself
for all I’ve
done.
Literature
The Girl Who Was Afraid To Be
She speaks to me fondly
of passions and talents,
of guitars and stars,
with such breathless intensity
then stops short and
apologises
for speaking at all.
All because somewhere in her life,
someone she loved broke her heart
by ignoring
her beautiful words
and telling her to
shut up,
keep it down,
nobody cares.
People aren’t born sad.
We make them that way.
Literature
pretty little poet fingers
fabricated gods rest between the
languid crevices of
her fingertips, scribbling profanities
all over her skin.
she's just mismatched bones
& blue bruises, telling of forbidden
love through archaic letters.
a tongue made for
wanderlust, & eyes made
for the stars,
even the devil fears her.
Literature
love letters to introverts
i.
To the boy who prefers spending Friday nights at home:
the world does not understand how beautiful silence sounds
sometimes.
As you crack open that book you've been waiting to read,
or plug in your computer,
or listen to music,
or,
or,
or,
or maybe just stare at the night sky from your bedroom window-
(please) remember what everyone else seems to forget;
that being alone does not always equal lonely--
and that sometimes no company is the best company there is.
ii.
To the girl who does not speak up in class:
I was once you.
You are not deficient, I promise, despite everyone telling you otherwise.
Suggested Collections
while i was away i wrote that everywhere. i don't quite know if i read it somewhere and it stuck or i came up with it myself as i'd like to think.
i really don't uptalk myself often, buuuuuut;
this is a piece i think you need to read if you carry a lot of guilt or issues with self esteem.
beauty really is a state of mind. find your peace. allow yourself to be beautiful.
i really don't uptalk myself often, buuuuuut;
this is a piece i think you need to read if you carry a lot of guilt or issues with self esteem.
beauty really is a state of mind. find your peace. allow yourself to be beautiful.
© 2014 - 2024 intricately-ordinary
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