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 Oct 2016 Maxine
CE
Doppelgänger
 Oct 2016 Maxine
CE
I see a little bit of myself in everyone I know

x

But I see so much of me in you

x

I wonder if you see it, too
 Oct 2016 Maxine
-
Untitled
 Oct 2016 Maxine
-
Sometimes
pain
is not there
to grow you
or hone you

Sometimes
pain doesn't
even make you
stronger
or better

Sometimes
pain
just hurts
and
sometimes
you
deserve it

Sometimes
pain...
is for
someone
who's not
even worth it
 Oct 2016 Maxine
Lunar
refill
 Oct 2016 Maxine
Lunar
"I have to unlove you a little," the girl said as she put her pen down.
He replied: why would you ever?
"I have to save my love for you; I have to save it for future days."
He frowned. "It sounds like you're saying goodbye. As if one day your feelings for me will disappear because of having loved me too much this very moment."
She shook her head. "I don't think I'll ever stop loving you though, if I give you just small amounts of it everyday. But you, would you still be the same, even if I cut down on the amount I usually give per day?"
He understood where she was going. "As long as you give me love, even down to the tiniest drop of it, I'll still love you all the same. And when you run out of it and can give no more, that's when I'll refill you with all the love you have filled me up with after all this time."
"One can never really run out of love, can they? Give or take. It's still love."
"Love is love-- give or take, small or big; doesn't matter as long as it exists-- if it's you I'm loving."
wjh--sometimes i ask myself, when will i know when is the right time to stop loving you? or will i continue this? i dont know. and this writing feels so random, like there isn't really a conclusion, i suppose. but i felt the need to jot it down. maybe i can write a second part after when I'm sure with my love for you.
 Oct 2016 Maxine
-
She's a painter
 Oct 2016 Maxine
-
She paints smiles on people's faces
But she can't paint one for herself

Day by day, she tries
Everyday, she fails


Until she came up with an idea
of painting her last canvas
She wants it to be memorable
and so she did it

Not with a brush, but with a razor
Not on a paper, but on her wrist
And the colors were not pastels
nor watercolors, but it was red.
It was blood.
And it spilled
Til it was too much.


True enough, her masterpiece
was remembered
It was seen as a symbol of sin by some,
some say it's simply tragic
some try to understand
--and for her that's art--
Something that tells a story
sad and beautiful at the same time

*The painter wanted to be a masterpiece
And so
she became one

— The End —