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Hangman's NooseDear Diary,
One year ago from this day I was a stone cold girl with fiery hair and wide eyes big enough to fit the sky in. Not much has changed.
I still have wide eyes, a darker color. A deeper gray. Each time I sew up the hole the clouds come back to tear me apart. I still have fiery h air on occasion. I follow the same trends and jealousy has lost its course. Last year I was stumbling through the circus.
Today I'm no closer to the ringleader's stand than I was then.
If I had to tell you one thing I'd say I believe in fate. The twists and knots, the hangman's noose, the lanyard must mean something. The symbols and signals, the blood on my sweater. I'd bleed again just for a taste of knowledge.
It started with this: Blue eyes, dark hair. Nice guy, bad end.
Brown eyes, rebound. Step back this time. Me + Him.
Over and Over.
Rewind: Blue eyes, dark hair. Blue eyes. Brown eyes.
If it weren't for this tragedy, if it weren't for the loss. If the cost wasn'
Shakespeare's Trioi'm not terrified anymore.
you had dark brown eyes, curls in your hair, and wrists as small as mine.
but i didn't care, no. not today at least.
i gave you a bracelet. it was dark purple and it matched you perfectly. i untied it, put it on your wrist and you loved it.
and i think for a second you might have loved me.
but that doesn't matter.
just keep my bracelet and i'll be fine.
so this boy came and he had pretty blue eyes and fine blonde hair and i hated him and then i kinda liked him, and then i loved him and now i love him more.
and i don't know,
but i can't compare his eyes to the stars or to the sky because that's what i've always done.
but they're just blue and yours are brown.
and his have no secrets and he smiles more and he's nice and that's nice and i think i love that.
and so that boy came and we were sitting there and i left and i met him and it was okay,
but then it was better.
so here we are, Paris and Juliet.
you know that story where Juliet dies and Paris loves her
Airyelli don't write about boys i love
anymore. i only write about boys
in the past, boys who run away. boys
who were never there or were, but i
pushed with letters and words and sometimes
i write about girls with thin bodies
and pretty hair and big eyes.
and then, i write about wrists and hips.
and her, and me.
but it's all mostly a bunch of letters, scrambled up
and mashed into a poem that no one reads
but her, and me.
i was fourteen when he fucked me and dumped me.
when he dumped me and fucked me.
i was fifteen a month later and i was high
most of the time.
i was fifteen when i met him, brown eyes and
darker skin. not by much, not enough to
notice. he was pretty, but only i saw it.
i was sixteen when i drowned in speed.
one pill every day. it was supposed
to be a one time thing.
it didn't end that way.
i was dead the next month.
she killed me.
i don't write about boys i love
just her, and me.
Like coffee, but so much betteryou painted the stars, and i blacked out the sky.
i drink my coffee, heavily induced with french vanilla creamer.
none of that generic stuff for me.
and i dump two tablespoons of fine
white cubes, glassy sugar (i'm a terrible, sweet tooth, i know)
into the to-go cup and stir in a bit
of fluffy whipped cream.
a combination i stole from a cold frappucino recipe.
something i love all too much.
i swish the scalding liquid down my throat,
shovel down a thick pill,
and toss my bag over my shoulder.
today is the first day of the rest of your life.
i pick up my book, a fine institution on
the high rise and fall of a methhead,
something i know all too well. speed. crank.
all those glamorous names for the risky, high tailed, drug.
mine came in a pill form.
a orange and white pill, cliche' and noticeable.
but it was speed nonetheless.
the inside was white. inviting and thin, like coke but
without the brilliant taste. it was bitter,
and i don't know why after that first hit i decided to down it
Blue facedi plucked the pieces of me out of my ribs and my hair, ripping them out one by one by the scalp, pulling the root until all the little pieces were in a long row, purple and bruised, and faded dark brown, and took the pieces i liked and thought were pretty. the rest i left there, to die.
to whither away in silence like i've been doing for years.
she was stone gray and blue faced and her hair was not long, and her fingernails were and she changed her name the day she changed her heart and she was someone, but not who she was, because she didn't know who that was.
she didn't know who she loved, because it certainly wasn't herself. because if that was the case than she would have stopped her pouting and her self destroying and ceased the twitching that happened in her ankles, in her knees. and her chest would stop that deathly freeze-frame beat it seemed to do when she couldn't get enough air into her lungs and she would be beautiful and have long hair and blue eyes and everyone would lo
Talking to Ghostsyou said forever and i thought you meant it,
but silly me; you only meant until your cigarette ran down and caved in and the ashes were left to spread over my grave.
i shouldn't have eaten that breakfast. maybe then i wouldn't have thrown up everything you shoved down my throat.
you won't remember, but i do.
last summer, when the sky was a true blue, a cotton candy color with clouds as white as the space in your eyes, and the grass long enough to hide the snakes in the grass that slithered their way into my brain and ate all my memories, you were there. and i was there. and for once, we were in perfect harmony.
you had stone cold black eyes, and my hair was long. not long, but long enough. and it was many colors, one for every week and yours was the same old shade of sandy brown, like a dark beach on a blistering hot day.
you were beautiful then.
we talked on the phone for nine hours.
you won't remember, but i do.
because your voice was not what i'd expect, though we'd spoken
Beginners Luckstruck dark eyes through my core
and i couldn't help but follow
you through to the stone
cold, dark car. saying "filthy little whore,
you have nothing. are nothing.
you are nothing."
felt the bile
come up my throat. and you just kept kissing
the hollow in my neck
to see if i was alive.
or if i would be dead in the morning.
i don't know.
you were cold, just like that car,
beaten and old
just like that car.
and i flushed all the pain away
beat you out of my memory except for that one day.
you said "here, take this hit"
and i sucked it in
said, "what is this?"
you said, "what the fuck does it matter? it does the job."
and i beat myself up
over and over
that night. because i didn't know why
i didn't know that. so i cried,
and you just sighed
with those damn dark eyes.
and i kept wanting to not be alive.
so i think, tomorrow, i'll dive into those eyes
and let the currents take me away
from that stone cold, dark car
and somewhere far.
Blue Eyes in FlamesWhen the prince sees the flower bloom from the palm of her hand, he orders her arrest.
She is only seven years old.
He takes the flower from her and keeps it, even though he knows he shouldn't. He puts it a vase, or, rather, his servant does that for him. The flower doesn't ever die, even years later.
It's dawn of a December morning, and he's cold. But still, he stands next to his father dutifully and looks at the little girl with blue eyes that are now black from seven nights sleeping on a cold, dungeon floor behind bars. They cut off her dark brown hair during that time. She's tied to the pyre, and there are seven guards around her, holding sharper swords than normal, not that she could get away. There's one man dressed in black holding an unlit torch, with a mask over his face to prevent his death. His father raises his arm, and the torch is lit.
She locks her gaze to his, and he blinks at her. It's like she expects him to prevent it. He couldn't, though, he can't. She scares him, w
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