[x]

BackspaceIf I could edit myself
like a story,
I would press backspace
until there was nothing left.
I would start over again.
I would write about a nice girl
with no problems about
stating her mind.
A girl who wasn't afraid.
She would be smart enough
not to fall in love with the girl
that would've broke her heart.
She would never turn her back on anyone.
She would always be open-minded,
and she would never forget herself.
She would do what I forgot to.

Special"Special," my mother said while brushing my hair that evening. "You are very special, dearest."
I was only two at the time and more than a little confused. "What's 'peshal?" I lisped.
"Special, dear," she corrected absentmindedly, combing my auburn curls lightly. "It's when you're not the same as the others. It's when you're not only not the same, but you're also the only one like yourself."
"Is special a good thing, Mommy?" I asked innocently.
"I don't know..." she said, punctuating each word as if it might be her last. "It can be. I believe special is good if you use it that way."
I nodded sagely, knocking the brush out of my hair and my mother's hand. It made a distinct thump sound as it hit the floor. My mother laughed, surprised, before standing up from her perch on the bed beside me to grab it.
"Be careful, dearest," she scolded lightly, placing the brush on a large vanity in the far corner of the room. "You could break something important. Why don't you lay down now?"
Wit

I see dead people...    How do I phrase this? I could go the corny way with ‘I see dead people,’ but that’s a little overused, don’t you think?
   I mean, it’s not like I’m seeing ghosts. Just shadows.
   My mother used to cook in that kitchen. Just because she never will again doesn’t mean I don’t hear her sometimes, or see her out of the corner of my eye only to have her slip away when I look closer.
   My dog used to play in that backyard. His body may be buried under the big tree at the top of the hill, but sometimes I fool myself into hearing him bark.
   He used to say he'd never leave, that he would be here forever. He’s gone now, but sometimes I still feel the brush of his hand on my shoulder, against my wrist, or even, when I close my eyes and relax, against the very apple of my cheek.
   When I’m almost drunk with exhau

2) Letter to Your CrushDear Beautiful.
    If I ever seem to act like you don't care, it's because I know you don't. I hope that someday you realize that, regardless of anything you've ever did or said to me, I still think I love you.
    Pathetic, right? Some might say it's romantic, but they don't know I don't have a chance.
    You have a lot of issues, you know. I think you may be schizophrenic. I know you're extremely depressed. You push everyone away every time because your mother is such a child. You haven't been as immature as your mother in years, but, at the same time, I think you'll always be a bit of a little kid because you never fully got to.
    You're straight. And you hate me.
You think you're ugly, don't you? Because you're not. You're never ugly. Not even when you've been crying.
    You quit school. I hate you for this, because you know as well as I do how hard it is to pull back in school after skipp

GunshotThere was once a time,
When, against the bleary sky,
I forgot about all my troubles,
And learned how to fly.
I saw wonders and riches,
Still yet untold.
I forgot all my worries
And learned how to be bold.

...I miss you when you're gone like this.
But the worst part is that you're still
here, right in front of me. I could be
screaming and you wouldn't hear me.
You've fell into yourself. Don't you
realize that I know how that feels? You've
seen me, broken down and brought
back in, trying so hard to fit in my skin.
I fall apart and no one knows,
because my breakdowns aren't
the type that scream and throw.
I scream silently, cry brokenly.
I thought that you knew that.
I thought that you knew that I
understood that better than anyone.
That I know how it feels to be broken.

Tired of Tiptoeing.I'm so
tired of
tiptoeing.
I break down in
circular spirals
that no one else
feels. I introvert
myself and forget
that people might
even truly care.
I learn to live with
only myself to
blame.
I'm so tired of
breaking down
and replacing
the pieces one
by one by myself.
I wish that I
could learn.
Learn that people
could help me.
That they
don't hate me.
I'm so tired
of tiptoeing
to avoid the
hate that isn't
even there.

ShuffleIt's funny how you need me,
after it's all said and done.
It's funny how you used to swear
you would never come undone.
I wish that things were different
when all we wanted was time.
We used to look at the sunset,
we used to always rhyme.
We used to fit together
like two pieces of a puzzle.
We never used to overlap,
but now we always shuffle.
I always swore that we would last
because I couldn't see us falling apart.
Now, it's painfully clear--
all we needed was a broken heart.

LunchtimeThree people in a crowded lunchroom. Two boys, one girl.
One of the boys, a orange redhead, eats his hamburger eagerly, talking between swallows and the next bite. The other boy, short with curly brown hair, munches on a bag of chips. The girl, hair dyed a brightly ludicrous orange-gold cut to show off darker brown layers, eyes her plate with disgust, blue eyes watching her hamburger distastefully. Nothing on her plate has been touched.
They sit close together, the redheaded boy in the middle, and various other students surrounding their little group.
"This is why I hate hamburgers," the girl murmurs. The redhead nods, swallowing.
"You hate anything this school serves," he points out with a grin. She smirks, elbowing him in the gut.
"If they started serving good food, I would eat it." she points out. The dark haired boy rolls his eyes, and she sends a scowl in his direction over the redhead's back.
"I think that would be against their policy. I remember reading it in the rules somewher

Paper Cranesyou were
always so good
at making others
think you were sane
while you
spent away your time
making paper
cranes
your fingernails chipped
and the tips bloody
as you try so hard
to fix broken dreams
for your one and only

Normal"You know what they say," he would ask me, looking to some point far over my shoulder. "That labels don't matter, as long as you're you."
"They shouldn't." I would say faintly.
"But they do. Because I think we all secretly want to be labeled--we all want to be put into little separate boxes so that we can pretend we're normal."
"We're not normal." I would state.
"No, but everyone wants to be."
Then I would reach over and grab his hand. "What's your point?"
"We're not normal," he would shake our hands vigorously, "this is not normal."
"'Normal is completely objective," I would whisper.
He would ignore me. "If we're not normal, then why are we still trying? Why do we still want this?"
And I would look down to our hands, his long fingers next to my short, squarish ones. Both distinctly masculine.
"Because your hand fits me better than a normal one would," I would murmur.

The little thingsyou know
the littlest things
remind me that
i'm not a
very good
person
in all honesty
i'm no better
than the
rest
i might
even be
worse
sometimes.

BUT I'M NOT GIVING UP.
Not again.
I know I've fallen
over and over,
but I want to make
something
out of myself this time.
I want to
be what I can be
and stop
hurting myself.
I have only myself to blame,
and I may not be perfect,
life may be crap,
but it's not completely dreadful
either.
I swear, I'll fix this.

OpinionWhen,
do you think,
will I be deemed
old enough
to have an opinion?
When will
my opinion
be equal
to that of others?
I'm not asking for much.
Just a change.
The world changes
every
single
day.
Can't one change
be in my favor?

Invincible"Are you okay, Leah?" Adam's hand runs soothing circles on my back.
I nod, wiping a hand under my eye only to pull it back wet with tears I didn't know I had been shedding.
"Sorry," I murmur, dusting off my jeans and standing. "I just kinda broke down for a second there." I give him a small smile, shaking his hand none-too-subtly off of my shoulders. "It's nothing to worry about."
He gapes at me like a fish.
"You- you just broke down in your office during the middle of the day. That's nothing to worry about?"
I nod lightly, looking over to my desk stacked with paper. "Yeah, it'll be fine- just guzzle down some coffee and I'll be good as new."
He shakes his head in disbelief. "Don't you think you should at least take some time off?"
"Nah. I'll be fine, trust me. I need to get this done." I walk over to my desk and sit down, giving him a clear but unspoken request to leave.
I sort through papers, biting my cheek in annoyance. He hasn't left yet.
"I don't know you very well- no one does-,

Celestial Memories    When I was little, I used to want to be a ballerina.
   I was so convinced I would be, in fact, that I walked on my tiptoes everywhere I went, no matter what I was doing. I eventually grew out of that dream, but I never stopped tiptoeing around.
   Partially because it had become a habit, but more so, I think, because it was and is so useful.
   Right now, for instance.
   Have you ever been so incredibly curious about something that you just couldn’t help yourself? That you just had to know, no matter what?
That would be my excuse, so I hope you keep it in your mind.
   I am currently standing outside my parent’s bedroom. You wouldn’t be wrong to say I’m eavesdropping.
   Why? I was walking by, minding my own business, when I heard my name.
   “… all because of Rhea…”
   I c

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Haunted"I'm sorry," she says softly. The sky is black above, speckled and marred by the bright scattered peaks of stars. An empty field stretches out from her on all sides, grass swaying softly back and forth in the breeze. The horizon is a flat plane in the distance.
She's all alone, but she doesn't feel like she is. She can feel the spirits all around her, filling up the field and then reaching up into the sky. She can hear their voices, quiet and stuttered as they are.
"--John? John, where--"
"--I just need to tell her--"
"--have you seen--"
"--Alice, can you hear me? Can you--"
All of them are looking for someone; a child, a lover, a friend.
"I'm so sorry," she murmurs to them once more. "I didn't mean to bring you back. I thought it would be better for you this way."
They can't hear her.
She covers her face in her hands, weeping for the lost souls she pulled back from death.
"--I just want to see her--"
"--Is anyone here?! I can't--"
"--where are they--"
The girl beg

smotheredThe past just
slapped me in the
face.
And I know you didn't mean it,
so I forgot what you said.
I decided it didn't matter.
[and now it's back
and i don't know if i'm going to cry
or just throw up]
I've been denied the chance
to prove myself against
misinformation--
you scared me into silence.
Sounds are clashing together
with lights that are too bright
and air that is too solid.
[i can't breathe]
It's been months,
but it feels so fresh.
A wound untended never
heals.

underworshipedI do think that
a hopeless, hapless martyr
jumped into my body at birth
and has been sitting, undisturbed,
in my conscious ever since.
He has no wiggle room left,
but he doesn't struggle;
no, he's delighted, playing the
puppet-master with no strings,
the artist without need of paper.
Yes, that must be the reason
I seem to care less for my own necessities
with every passing second.
He has smothered my care for selfishness;
left me with only an ideal of love.
Perhaps I will one day twist
so that he falls away with a clatter--
and what, I wonder, would I be then?
Would I stop painting, stop writing?
Would I no longer dream of death?
My martyr and I, we have an understanding.
I have to die, you see, no stopping that,
but, when I do, I do it on my terms.
I will save a life to lose my own.
There is no greater honor than sacrifice.

and so i fell in love under the willow treeYou are a
carnation.
'Hardy plants',
my mom would call them,
'Only one's that'll survive out here
in the heat. Everything else withers and
dies.'
And, oh,
she was right.
You are the last one left
out of dozens
who swore
they would never leave.
I pushed you away the most,
['i don't need this' i said
you heard 'i don't need you']
but you're still here
and I don't know why.
Half the time I just want you to leave.
And, the other half...
I dread to think what I would do
if you were gone.

poster childIf you could
write me a poem,
what part would I
play?
It would be, perhaps,
like a sign on a milk carton
being answered.
[lost myself; call if found]

Or it would be a
final resolution, saying,
there are some things
no one should understand.

Translate who I am
into stanzas and limericks;
[speak the dying language--
paint me with words]
If I am still here,
signal you have found me.

SanctuaryI take another deep inhale of smoke; my hands are shaking, and the cloud I breathe out is warm against my fingers. The air is cold and crisp, so I do it again, savoring the tingling feeling as I absorb the heat. The cigarette dangles precariously between my two fingers before I drop it to the ground.
A woman--plump with a upturned nose (I can't tell whether it's from the tilt of her head or just from the shape of it)--sneers at me as she walks by. I wave to her brightly, thinking that it's too cold to let her frigidness add onto it. I'm starting to feel the heavy weight of the park bench under me as it pushes against my weight; my jeans are soaked through with snow that isn't quite melted. I knock the heels of my worn converse together absentmindedly. (there's no place like home, Dorothy swears.)
I don't end up going home that night, though. Maybe I should've worn my red converse instead. Then again, maybe not.
When I show up at his door, stumbling and numb at the fingers, he takes one

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Submitted: November 24, 2012
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[x]

'Don't Leave,'

by ~hgfdsasdfgh, Nov 24, 2012, 1:40:48 PM
Literature / Prose / Fiction / Philosophy & Perspectives / Flash Fiction & Vignettes

"Don't leave." Her hand grasps at my collar. Her eyes are wide, panicked.

"Visiting hours are over. I have to." I softly wrap my hand around her's and pull it off of my wrist. At first, she refuses to let go, but after a few seconds, something in her eyes shatters like broken glass and her hand goes limp.

"Okay," she says softly, like a petulant child. Her soft grey eyes are focused on the floor. "Sorry."

"Hey," I say, one hand on her shoulder and the other under her chin. "I love you. I'll be back soon."

As if she doesn't really expect an answer, she whispers, "..Promise?"

"Promise." I nod, pressing my lips briefly to her forehead.

I try to ignore her soft gasp of "Don't leave!" as I exit.

Because if I have to explain again, I'll be sure to stay.

'Don't Leave,'by ~hgfdsasdfgh

Literature / Prose / Fiction / Philosophy & Perspectives / Flash Fiction & Vignettes

©2012-2013 ~hgfdsasdfgh

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~~mad 0 0~~

~~fear 0 0~~

~~neutral 0 0~~

Mood: Sadness

~nataliemelo Nov 25, 2012 Hobbyist Writer

Really good! Congrats >< I really liked it.. Poor girl ):

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~hgfdsasdfgh Nov 25, 2012 Student General Artist

Thanks!!

A lot of people seem to like this one. ><

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Mood: Love

~giantstorylover Nov 25, 2012

Wow! Very good!

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~hgfdsasdfgh Nov 25, 2012 Student General Artist

Thanks so much!!

It means a lot.

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~giantstorylover Nov 25, 2012

you're welcome

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~CPT-CUPCAKE-art Nov 25, 2012 Traditional Artist

good job!

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~hgfdsasdfgh Nov 25, 2012 Student General Artist

Thanks!!

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~genericusername11 Nov 25, 2012 Hobbyist Traditional Artist

Aww!

This is so sad and sweet at the same time! Great work, I really like it~!

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~hgfdsasdfgh Nov 25, 2012 Student General Artist

Thanks!!

I didn't intend for this to be so sad... XD

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~genericusername11 Nov 25, 2012 Hobbyist Traditional Artist

No problem! ^^ It's really sweet at the same time, though~

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