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Literature Text
Imagine this.
You're driving down the interstate, right? Wind whistling through your hair, radio going, and all that jazz. So you're in your car, right? Eyes firmly on the road, when all of the sudden this truck up ahead of you turns and jackknifes. Just like that. Right in front of you. For no reason at all. No warning. No signal. No nothing. And you think to yourself, Ah shit, and you forget to hit the brake. You don't hit the brake and you plow right into the motherfucker. You just run right into him. Your chest goes into the steering wheel, your whole body jars and flops and you think, Oh God I'm gonna die.
So after the impact you look around, right? Glass is everywhere. Your car’s dented. And you're bleeding. You're bleeding and you think to yourself, Of all the ways to die it just had to be like this… leaking to death on an interstate. It's so fucking unfair and pathetic. I mean who dies that way? But then you realize, it's over. You've already crashed and you're still alive. You're gonna live. You're gonna be okay, and that's a relief because you've still got so many people to see, so many things to apologize for, so many scores to settle, so many breaths to breathe and thoughts to think and dreams to have and words to say. You still have so much left to live for and in your hazy stupor, you're so grateful for what just happened that you stumble out of your car, fall face-first onto the asphalt, stand up, raise your arms and thank your ill-fated stars that at least you didn't scream or shit yourself. You start trembling and crying and not caring about anything except, hallelujah, you're alive.
You're alive and you know exactly what that means.
You're driving down the interstate, right? Wind whistling through your hair, radio going, and all that jazz. So you're in your car, right? Eyes firmly on the road, when all of the sudden this truck up ahead of you turns and jackknifes. Just like that. Right in front of you. For no reason at all. No warning. No signal. No nothing. And you think to yourself, Ah shit, and you forget to hit the brake. You don't hit the brake and you plow right into the motherfucker. You just run right into him. Your chest goes into the steering wheel, your whole body jars and flops and you think, Oh God I'm gonna die.
So after the impact you look around, right? Glass is everywhere. Your car’s dented. And you're bleeding. You're bleeding and you think to yourself, Of all the ways to die it just had to be like this… leaking to death on an interstate. It's so fucking unfair and pathetic. I mean who dies that way? But then you realize, it's over. You've already crashed and you're still alive. You're gonna live. You're gonna be okay, and that's a relief because you've still got so many people to see, so many things to apologize for, so many scores to settle, so many breaths to breathe and thoughts to think and dreams to have and words to say. You still have so much left to live for and in your hazy stupor, you're so grateful for what just happened that you stumble out of your car, fall face-first onto the asphalt, stand up, raise your arms and thank your ill-fated stars that at least you didn't scream or shit yourself. You start trembling and crying and not caring about anything except, hallelujah, you're alive.
You're alive and you know exactly what that means.
Literature
why we pity angels
to him;
you are afraid of phonecalls. you
are afraid of your own voice, and
opening your ribcage to let
your heart come live on your sleeve.
you are afraid of living without caffeine
or alcohol, whatever the day calls for;
you are afraid of being real
without laughing afterwards, becoming
everything you worked so hard to get
away from, acknowledging all
that you still are. know this:
I am afraid of loud noises.
I am afraid of honesty and drowning,
people I don’t know and words
I won’t say. I am afraid
of growing old and living alone and
you not accepting me. I am afraid
of myself. In that, we are the same.
to her;
I have the
Literature
A Sparrow's Soliloquy
"Every year they get a new tattoo," Papa exclaims while pointing at a certain pop band as he watches the MTV Music Awards with me. I am reminded to untuck my hair from my ear in order to prevent him from catching my already 3rd secret tattoo.
Papa's love, for me, has always been proportional to the width and warmth of his grizzly bear paws that wrap perfectly around my cold and anemic bird bones. Sometimes I wonder how much of his heart do I really own; he's already proclaimed, in front of mama too, that he loves me far more than anyone he has ever and will ever love. Sometimes, I spend sleepless nights worrying myself to sickness upon the d
Literature
denial and uglier aftermath
i drink to you, raising my glass and
choking down the things you left,
ignoring my gag reflex and waiting
on the buzzing in my head, white cotton
lullabies for the weak of heart.
it kills me that we are just a
collection of vignettes, that soon
i might see your blossom fingers
and bleeding sunset smile but
only as a memory gone static with neglect;
this summer, i became a rebel. a
martyr in a child’s game, a vagrant
with boxes of dead poetry to call
a home, and when i asked you to want me,
it’s only so you’d take the sanity and consciousness
with you when you left. i miss
the days when personality disorders
were not gra
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An old piece of flash fiction that I recently edited. Imagine someone speaking this.
© 2013 - 2024 QuirkyCuriousBex
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