In Which I Speak Better in Poem than Conversation

I was a lie, a contradiction.

Ice Queen, Lone Ruler,

I told my shadow to call me frozen fire,

As it was the only thing that had stayed with me,

The air around me formed friends,

Fueled by imagination and those I had lost,

Memories haunted me but I found beautiful seclusion,

In books, whether to study or to dream through.

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I want

I want to be an apple in your eye,

The figure your gaze lingers on just a second more,

The thought that appears randomly before you fall asleep,

The absent-minded doodle in your notebook,

The blushing confirmation to your friend.

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A Novel I’ll Never Write (NINW 9)

She looked at me with a dreadful gaze. I no longer saw eyes that held all the stars in a comforting glow of hazel, but now the blinding shine of something I can no longer bear to watch. “Why?” She gestured wildly around her as if our bed or our pictures on the wall or any part of our room held a form of explanation and reasoning towards my abrupt statement. “I…I don’t know.” I admit. Thinking things through was never a strong point of mine.

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The Medieval Clown

You’re faced with a clown of more ancient times. With crushed berry and petal dye-stained features, he holds out balloons to you. Strings made of woven spider web are attached to inflated pig bladders that seem still fresh in stench. Drops even come from them, a mix of yellow, brown and red.

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A Novel I’ll Never Write (NINW 8)

I would rush the last few steps to the closet, slamming the door shut as I pressed a hand to my chest. “Inohsia…” Whispering, the rune further up my arm is activated, a sickly green color emitting from the symbol as my breathing calms. I silently thank Fin’asia for her distraction as my breaths catch from the rhythmic sounds of running feet. They pass me by without so much as a falter, moving further down the hall and sweeping their heels against the stone floors as they round a corner.

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A Novel I’ll Never Write (NINW 7)

The man stands, the calm unfaltering from his tone as he watches the scene in front of him carefully. “Delia…let Viola go. She’s only twelve, she doesn’t need to go through this.” Defiant, the redhead shoves the gun more roughly against the head of the preteen, the young girl trembling as she silently sobs. The gesture demonstrates her response well enough.

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A Wife’s Love

The young countess calmly let the sugar cube fall into her tea. She watches it carefully as she takes her spoon to stir the tea. The small cube, white stained brown by the tea and heavy with it, cannot sink nor rise but only be pushed by the spoon, she noted. Only fall apart and begin dissolving.

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