pillow book.

Stars knew I didn't want to be here. It had taken many sweaty, restless nights to come to the conclusion that it was inevitable to return. To answer my Captain's call.

The Moon and the Ocean

Nature takes its course. Pillow book.

my mouth tastes like I've been chewing on violets

a slaughterhouse for dejection. Pillow book.

mocking

A false identity and a stolen kingdom; a beautiful prince and a temperamental maiden. In which the dragon is a mother-in-law, and the tower is made up of lies.

A hundred feet underground, I will whisper your name

"Hermione, there is not much else I can say, for I am always being watched, but you must know that I-we-are in terrible danger. These walls will burst, and the madness will slip through the trees and down into the streets of London. It will flow through the sewers, and it will rise like mist, and we will be as pigs before the slaughter, ripe and fat and stupid."

secrets of the flesh, etched into bone

my soul bears no comfort for your twitching limbs

I am a child of dreamlessness.

I love you like the rain

you are mine. Pillow book.

the softness of sex

i am Hades

I am the laughter and the heartbeat of a wildflower.

moonlight lips. for a friend.

create images of sealines

the softest bone within my voice

the aftertaste of dark matter

rain inside of me

I am quite simply lost in Ocean

speak of tiny things like birds

I am not mad. I am not.

shivering

being dead is so much more romantic than being alive

I want to climb into the lap of my rapist father. Novella. Complete.

under my skin

my white, elusive Scheherezade. Pillow book.

Dance with me, monster. Pillow book.

they are coming for me

Dead little bird

I watch them fly by, their wings desperately reaching for each other as I breathe in the scent of roses and mustard gas. Collection of poetry/prose.

zephyr hands

silk on silk, and a sigh

buried in water

You are flowering in my mouth

feel your thighs squeezing

flirting with your skin

nature is God in art.

what do you do with a girl who refuses to be alive? Pillow book.

so often she trembles trembles trembles under my fingertips

merci, merci, merci. pillow book.

it's me it's me it's me it's me

You rip it from my hands. Pillow book.

my ocean limbs are tired. pillow book.

I am so empty

yes. yes.

Not for me. Pillow book.

Hello, insomnia. My old friend.

always back to you.

You disappeared. Pillow book.

I am not a doll.

I am an owl breathing steadily in the woods. Collection.

And if our hands should meet again, let them. Pillow book.

Yes. You can.

Mine. Mine.

I listen to the wall's regrets. Novella.

In dreams, I walk with you

Searching for movement in an ocean of quiet. Pillow book.

I can't breathe.

Letters to all the people I have lost and gained.

I can't look, I can't look. Pillow book.

of silence

I've cried for you and your city of colour

I am sick to the marrow of my bones of this unmovement

They never tasted of happiness

but i'm no ophelia either. pillow book.

when all i see are lovers who could have been mine. pillow book.

She smellt so sweetly of cigarettes. Femmslash.

not many people appreciate him. pillow book.

stranger with the ocean eyes and the tiger hands

courage

i am tired of myself

be my Ophelia

and burn the sight of you from my retinas

dust

when i lay down at night i can feel you grow inside of me. be a sunflower, baby. bright and tall and lovely.

and you see, i am terribly afraid of that horrid cheshire cat

all dressed in silver

and flirt with the young kids out to take the moon's breath away

I hear the music, Maestro

A touching story of a man finding out his purpose in life. And stuff.

and you're already gone

nothing but what i was--everything

the fog hides your deceit

A brothel in a tiny Japanese village will only accept the most beautiful of women into its rank. Mai, an ex-geisha with a bloody past. Wakana, a veteran prostitute with a sadistic streak. And the boy who's looking for his dead uncle.

i'm just another page in your story of blue-eyed girls. inspired by a friend's eyes.

give it back

if I close my eyes and breathe deeply, I can imagine that the body violating my essence is you

the rain tastes like beautiful acid

i write with rain and song

I kill only on Thursdays. The rain tends to wash the blood away.

and you glance up and give me a hard look that seems to ask if you are supposed to be happy about this.

She pulls away, narrows her eyes at me. "I was actually touched for a minute, but you ruined it when you mentioned the wet dreams."

i would kill for you

in the soft fermata of your breath i find comfort and pleasure

i go towards the ocean

i try to tell them it's real, but their ears are full of taxes and r&b music

in the dead of the night i listen to his voice while in the secrecy of the silence i smile a smile of velvet and quiet

the heart is the strongest muscle in the body; why is it so prone to breaking?

i want to lean into the grooves and curves of your body and inhale your scent

the ocean just isn't as beautiful without your hand on my thigh

Aurelia remembers the day her mother was hanged.

The music comes from the river, begging me to save it like a drowning child. So I jump.

she is homesick but she doesn't know where home is anymore

you have no time left

i've often wondered what it would be like to drown

i am perched on the edge of things that terrify me

The first letter came on a late, Friday afternoon. 'My name is Cordelia, because I can never tell a lie.'

who you want me to be

where i belong

just somebody that i used to love

because lying is a sin

for a friend.

you're no ted bundy, darling, but you'll do

darling, i am a soiled girl.

do you know how much you mean to me? .series of letters to thirteen people.

you're pretty, says i. especially when you're dead.

feels a sin coming on

and he can do so much more for me than you ever could

Puppets don't talk.

fairy tales never come true

Three friends sit in a coffee shop. "Andy Warhol thinks you're ugly."

your eyes are like spring sometimes poetry-prose

pulse, pulse. a subtle scar. more than one, evenly spaced. organized. deliberate.

crushed violets, wet velvet, dying

and sadness under my eyes

you destory me

‘Go to England yourself, little girl,’ he breathes. ‘There’s a life there for Erika Horner. Not for Jack Brimley. Go there and write your fucking poems and meet the Queen and have tea with J.K. Rowling. I’ll just watch myself fade away like a photograph.’

we will become the Silence

she is dead, but her eyes still scream 'save me'. her mouth still shrieks.

she's thankful for the dream-rain. even dream-him doesn't deserve to see her cry.

let's go to the city, angel

A wall of people between us. A wall of flesh and blood between us. I am consumed.

have you ever wondered what color underwear hillary clinton is wearing at this very moment? or why vampires really sparkle in the sunlight? find out here! a Q&A that does not deserve to be called a story.

has no time for romance.

use me, burn me, stick things inside me

i'm falling into purple flowers and silver moonbeams

when the morning comes you'll disappear into the golden light. the dark is our only accomplice.

find me if you can

she's no one, really. just another girl objected to the observations of poets and just another girl subject to be the fantasy of every sad, lonely boy.

is that chapstick on your lips, baby? it tastes faintly of strawberries and is weighted down with sex and guilt.

as i am sitting next to my window with crying children in their bedrooms and dying flowers on the front porch, i am letting the glass fog with my hopeful breaths; i will see you walk up that driveway and youwilloveme.

you cannot keep things caged until they long for freedom.

silently life goes on without her--a bird is singing in a tree next to her window, her violin collects dust in the corner. the cars continue home. and, gently, she withers.

let's laugh at angry parents and the heavily pregnant girls at school. shall i etch a heart on my chest with ink and needle for you, my pet?

i will become just another water stain on your wall and i will watch you bring in girls that smell like cocaine and watch you fuck on your yellow sheets—

death is a masterpiece that was created by us, darling, us; we painted this picture of death. so let us bow and accept our applause.

i want to know these things, but i don't think anyone can answer. why do i ask, then?

I call your name once more—‘Darling, dear one, angel’—before the sun highlights the shadows and Death can no longer hide. And neither can you, darling, so come out, angel, come out to play in our dead garden. oneshot.

i love you so it hurts. i accept this fact as i do my own birth. so why do i weep?

how frail, how weak we humans are. how something so simple and honest can destroy us.

maybe if i put you into the sunlight you will turn into a beautiful flower.

but things are fine for now, until the sun goes out and the moon is there only to beautify our crying and to make the world silver and beautiful before it vanishes like our madness in white walls.

will you ever be strong so i can finally put my mind to rest as the sun hushes your crying lips?

quietly a woman croons in my ear, counting sheep; no time is ever enough.

now, as i refuse to take your hand, your fingers retract, and you close your strangled blossom to shut out the sun.

sing because life is life and we are immortal and unchanging like the stones on the bottom of the sea.

wake up dreamer boy; you're not alice or a white rabbit.

this is the product of extreme boredom and emotional blankness. please leave at once if you feel nauseous, light-headed, or happen to go into early labor. thank you. this message will self-destruct in five minutes. a senseless drabble.

she dangles her feet and suspends herself over oblivion. she writes stories on her shoes so her daughter will walk in her mother's shoes on day. oneshot that makes no sense.

maybe, maybe she really will be a woman someday, but for now, she'll dance her pretty girl dance for her angel. for now, she'll kiss the sun and become what she wants to become.

her long arms are too busy hiding; her long legs are too busy running.

He is an artist. Blood is his paint and she shall be his easel.

I wish we could go to the sea together. Because, really—what is more like love than the sea? It suffocates and drowns. Come with me my love; to the sea, the sea of love.

The first time they kissed, it was an accident. She stumbles along and knows he will always catch her. fluffy oneshot.

She leans close. "I killed for you," she says. And the apple is taken and the poison drips into her veins.

When she was young she liked pretty things. Later, she comes to realize blood is the prettiest thing you can see.

An indecent proposal. Which one would give in first? The walls surrounding Lady Lasiandra's School for Young Ladies holds more than just secrets, it seems. Short story...really.

She taps the pencil against the snowy piece of paper, contemplating her life briefly and she ponders what to write. Write what you know, she had heard, but she doesn’t know anything anymore, since life doesn’t tell her anything. oneshot, again. M for rape

Penetration. Shudder. Pull back. Penetration. Shudder. It isn’t until afterwards that he knows she’s poisoned him with her lips. “Do you still want to fall with me?” she whispers. He’s dying slowly. oneshot. M for sexual content.

The rain falls. And again it hides her face like a liquid mask that fools an uncaring world. oneshot.

Angel loves to write. She loves the feeling of power it gives her. It's an escape from her dysfunctional family, the constant fighting. It's an escape from reality. But when her grip on reality begins to slip, will she become the story itself?

After the untimely death of her mother, Annabella White becomes a ghost of what she was. In hopes of restoring what was once lost, she agrees to marry her newest suitor, a young man named Nathaniel. But all is not what it seems with her new husband.