Falling feels like flying When you’ve never touched the ground. Gravity can’t hurt you When you’re skyward bound. Falling feels like flying If you face any direction but down. If you can see the end of your journey, You’ll never turn back around. Falling feels like flying Until the moment that you land. Then suddenly falling feels like dying And you’re never free again.
Alone again, It’s who I am. The ghost of a girl, A spectator in their world.
The story I follow didn’t last long. My heart is hollow, the pages gone.
Icy spikes Form in their eyes. A cold, cold darkness It’s my disguise.
Don’t let the light Creep its way through, Or it will unveil My unsightly view.
Alone again, It’s who I am. Self-sabotage reaches out its deathly hand.
Though years ago warm and sweet, Behind a mask, I now retreat.
Confidence was not So easily held, And through the cracks in my hands, Its sandy grains fell.
If only I hadn’t Grown up to be shattered, Then there wouldn’t be cracks, And it wouldn’t have mattered.
Alone again, It’s who I am. But it’s not who I was. And not who I chose to be.
If there was anywhere he’d rather be… well, there wasn’t. He enjoyed the little things most, the way the sky would turn blue and pink at that perfect moment before the sun fell behind the rocky mountains. The scurries of desert mice, the cries of soaring sparrows, the whistles of the wind. However, there was nothing he loved more than his horse, Luna. The sky, the mice, the sparrows, and the wind, paled in comparison to the joy he felt when on her back.
There was no place he’d rather be, because her back is where his heart was. And with his heart, his home. The desert meant nothing if she was not there with him. And so, in the middle of this forgotten desert, among the cacti, sand, and heat, was the happiest man on earth. Sweating under layers of clothing, losing weight and dizzy from lack of food and water, he smiled. The sun crept below the mountain, and the stars began to twinkle against the dark blanket of the night. “Luna,” he whispered, and pointed to the moon. “You are beautiful in every form.”
Love is the lie that keeps us alive. You poured out your heart, I pulled out my knives.
Love too truthfully and you’re done; I could tell with one look you were too far gone.
Love is the lie that caused you to die. You hoped too far, Flew up too high.
That’s why I broke it off on the twelfth, But maybe it was to save myself.
Love is the lie that’s making me cry. It’s your absence that’s haunting, Emptying my eyes dry.
Mercy was never my enemy, I always thought it was you. But maybe love isn’t a lie anymore. Maybe it was never.
Every time I reached out, you’d pull me out of the waves. You’d hold me close and only let me down when we reached the safety of the white foamy waters.
It was innocent love, pure as snow, soft as marshmallows and bunnies and dim lantern glows.
Whipped cream on the tip of my nose, the cold wind of winter blows it was a white Christmas with you.
The intricate painting of our lives weaved with colors so vibrant and bright, but in March when the ice melted, you took your paintbrush and dipped it in white.
You painted across my canvas, erasing the colors we made together. The only ones left were from yours. My blank canvas lays empty with white, you’ve removed yourself from my life.
Like the color white is destined to do, I was only ever able to reflect my feelings for you.
It shouldn’t be addicting The way you look at me, It tastes so bitter on my tongue But replaces my reality.
I delve into the canyons of your doe-brown eyes There’s nothing keeping me on my feet, I’m lifted by butterflies
Raised on a throne of wings, I touch the clouds But there’s still a rotten taste in my mouth.
I try to smile, Blood paints my teeth. While I was distracted, Your sword you unsheathed.
I feel hot as a blue flame, I shiver with need You’re all I want, My love’s thief.
I’m sick but I can’t tell if its all in my head, This feeling is torture, I’d rather be dead. Then I realize with your toxic gaze, You’ve poisoned my heart, I’ve gone ablaze.
Mr. Mcklenny meticulously placed the delicate glass lantern atop the decorated table, wiping his brow immediately afterwards. It was the final of the decorations to be set out, and now came the real challenge: the wait.
Being in the middle of the desert was a bit of a difficult area to attract others, however he learned from years of settling that it was the best way for him to put on his mask and keep his secret. He was kicked out of his hometown, after all.
He plopped down in his chair, throwing the tail of his tuxedo behind him, and took his top hat off to run his hands through his hair. When every grain of sand was removed from his chestnut curls, he put on a lazy smile as his eyes scanned the view. He was becoming ravenous, not having eaten in a little under a week.
It was a few hours that passed until Mr. Mcklenny saw someone. He plastered on the smile that slipped from his face in all his waiting and stood, waving his right hand in a wave.
“Thirsty?” he called out and stepped aside to motion behind him to all the drinks he had lined up. The person came closer into view and Mr. Mcklenny realized it was an entire group. He guessed his perception was off from the lack of food. His smile grew as the four people entered the tent, all looking incredously from the ice cold water back to Mr. Mcklenny.
“Go ahead, I don’t bite,” he laughed. The others smiled and took a glass each, one muttering a thank you from deep in his dry, scratchy throat.
“Not yet, at least,” there was now a much darker tone to his words. He was found against the wall of the tent, his hand hovering over a small black button.
With a click, the floor under the visitors disappeared. There were shrieks that were cut short by a large plop, silence suddenly thick in the air. Mr. Mcklenny came closer and peeked over the side of the hole, his eyes lighting up at the bloody view that met him.
“Dinner,” he growled and climbed down the long ladder, ready for his long awaited feast.
Two pairs of blue eyes.
One, dark as the depths of the ocean. The other, light like the small waves on the shore.
Just two different pairs of eyes, and yet the girls were the same in every other possible way.
Amy loved sunrises. So did Hannah. Hannah loved the color orange. So did Amy. Amy and Hannah loved going on walks in the summer and swimming in chlorinated pools and eating mangoes and skiing in the winter and shopping only in the store around the corner and reading books and going to english class and climbing the rock wall during gym and drinking coffee.
They both hated the ocean.
Perhaps it was because it reminded them of each other. Because what would it take to just be special? Hannah and Amy were both jealous of the people who did not have twins, for at least they were one of a kind.
Except they had one difference. A quite lethal difference, in fact.
Amy liked her coffee hot. Hannah liked it cold.
Each time they walked into the coffee shop, Amy would notice Hannah’s fascination with the boy across the counter. The twins place their order each day. Eventually it just becomes “the usual.” Amy would notice how Hannah is too kind to correct the boy that her “usual” was iced coffee rather than hot coffee. Each day, they sat and Amy drank her coffee while Hannah let hers cool.
Amy had enough. The girls got their coffee the next morning, and while Hannah stared at the boy working at the counter while waiting for her coffee to cool, Amy slipped something into her twin’s drink.
Within the next hour, Hannah was dead.
Amy should have felt happier. At least, she was special now. But no matter how many times she looked at herself in the mirror, she couldn’t smile without noticing something was different. The pair of dark blue eyes stared back at her, and she realized this wasn’t right. She was supposed to see the light blue. She was supposed to see the calm waves of the sea. Instead she saw the stormy depths, and it became apparent that together they made the ocean, but alone she was merely the darkness underneath.
Belonging Is waking up to your mother’s smile, Because to her, you matter.
Belonging Is having the dinner table set with a spot for you Because you are a part of the family.
Belonging Is an invitation to a birthday party Because your friend wants you there.
Belonging is just a feeling, But the aspects that awaken it are forever meaningful.
The book in my hand clatters to the floor as the door of my office swings open. I keep my head down, not daring to look at his arrogant walk as he enters.
“Nervous?” The sinister smile in his voice is apparent even in just that single word.
Instead of responding, I carefully rearrange the red pen, papers, and stationary that are kept on my desk. It is the safer option.
The ruffles of paper from behind are loud, almost directly in my ear. He is doing this on purpose. But I cannot look.
However, on his way back to the door he came from, his foot catches on something and he is on the floor. I look down to see the book that he tripped on, the book that I dropped earlier. Then my eyes snap up, though he is staring straight back at me. And as I look into his eyes, there is not enough time to grab my red defense pen before I feel my body slowly becoming immobile and unfeeling, beginning at my legs. “No,” I utter.
His lips quirk up at the sides, simply watching me.
I cannot move. I cannot blink. I can barely breathe anymore. I am turning to stone.
His smile and devilish green eyes are the last view I am granted before I see nothing. The stone has made its way to my face. It is done.
One simple mistake cost me my entire existence, and I wish I would die. I wish I would have died a torturous, long and grueling death over being encapsulated in stone for eternity. I’d be hit by the same truck 5000 times before ever choosing this destiny if it meant I’d meet a real end.
But there is nothing I can do. I am the girl of stone, and girls of stone do not break.
They are already broken.
