Warning: updates will be spastic.
Thank you and have an immensely spiffy life!!!
Neko


A Letter to JacobIsnt it funny?A Letter to Jacob
The way you think you know me?
Isnt it funny?
You smile at me politely, guessing at things past my exterior, settling a label firmly under my name. A mental snapshot of me is forever etched with a meaningless word. So now when you think of me you think of everyone else? Soft touch on the shoulder, brush of breath as you whisper in my ear
Doesnt it hurt?
The way you sew yourself into my skin?
Doesnt it hurt?
Trail a hand down my back, feeling for secrets. I catch my breath and hate myself for it. Cant yo


PhotographShe sits, waiting, for something more than herself. A spark-- a soft glow of hope lighting up her face warming her heart dispelling the darkness. She reaches out, catches hold of something, something gray and paper-thin. A heartbeat. A moment frozen. A reality that is no more. Holds it to herself, clasping it to a chest that aches for the past. The spark grows brighter. And brighter. Flickers, flutters at the edge of the paper, twines golden fingers around it. Crackles and snaps and shines until the memory fades And onPhotograph


Of Stars and MoonlightAt first he was nothing more than the hushed sigh of a breeze blowing past my bed. Every night on the dot. Midnight. He would drift by, like moonlight, tenuous and soft. And I would squint into the darkness, hoping to see more.Of Stars and Moonlight
Then one night I awoke to the faint whisper of fingers on my cheek. I opened my eyes, remaining motionless, not wanting to scare him off.
My angel. Made of cobwebs and opals and old, forgotten moonlight gathered from the corners of tombs. Tall and dark and full of uncovered mysteries.
He would smile at me, sorrowful. And hungry. His wings stretched over the two


a moment of your time I am a writer because my mother says so. I am a writer because I am teaching myself to look for my pothole blue eyes, fat stomach smile, and popped-bubblegum cheeks in mirrors, television screens, and reflective surfaces. I am a writer because one time I had an innocuous crush on my second cousin and I still cherish all of his two-line emails. I am a writer because I am the stereotypical, spoiled, overloved only child. I am a writer becausea moment of your time
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West Side Dollar
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all of my issues are serious
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West Side Dollar
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Be Kind To The
I tagged you.
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the game.
i lost it.
And thx you again for compliments !
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Just a little girl on a bicycle;
( Sorry if my english is bad, I'm not endowed >< )
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Just a little girl on a bicycle;
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