The Literary Phoenix

Funny, the damage a silly little book can do. Especially in the hands of a silly little girl.

He inspired me.

There was a glimmer in his eyes,
like moonlight on a lake;
we couldn’t help but to dive,
our skin bare as it was meant to be since
we crawled crying from our mothers’ wombs.

He drove me.

My passion was anger,
in the spittle, in the words
we sprayed at one another, arsenic
and I promised I would leave
I did.

He comforts me.

In the moments of morose solitude,
it is his arms that find me,
reminding me each day is fleeting,
and each moment is gone in an instant,
so he must love me even more.

They become me,
and I them.

I had but love to offer,
and each took it gladly,
until the cookie jar was empty
and I could not find the crumbs.


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