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It really gets under my skin the way I don't hear from you in a couple of days and I become this sullen, anxiety ridden mouse that burrows her nose in the pages of books, filling her mind with the troubles of made up characters so she doesn't have to deal with her own feelings and problems and life.

Is it possible to feel like a mouse and an elephant at the same time?
You make me feel so small while I fumble around and destroy anything with the smallest of movements.
I hate missing you.
It's like my heart is fighting a cheese grater.
Yes. A cheese grater.
I try so hard not to even think about you sometimes I'm sure everyone can just see it on my face.
But I try.
I write. I talk to other guys, even though I find them so dull I want to throw personalities at them and pray it hurts.
I have so many more actual life problems that are right here, screaming in my face.
I need to focus on school.
But I'm missing you.
I need to lose these extra 10 pounds.
But I'm wallowing and missing you.
I need to finish that scarf I started knitting ages ago.
Stop.
I don't have time to miss you.
There are books I haven't read yet
and recipes I haven't tried and people I haven't met and places I haven't seen.
But I'm wanting your arms around me.
And I know this doesn't even make sense.
But I'm missing you.
This is just late night ramblings of a girl who can't sleep.
 Jan 2014 sinderella
typhany
my arms remember razor blades and spiked needles
and my veins ache to feel the warmth of her
swimming perfectly through my bloodstream
and engulfing my every fear, my every desire
until i am nothing but a pool of sticky tar

my nostrils burn without the powder
flying into my brain, and dripping down my throat
keeping me awake for days on end
and opening up my mind for my pen
shaking as i hold it to the paper; scribble

my tongue dwells on the bitter taste of hallucinogens
that made me dance in the coldest rain
and swim in the smallest pools of warm blood
that erupted from the belly of an orange tiger
who held my hand, and danced to the beats

my stomach remembers the feeling of pill bottles
emptied out; the tablets dissolved
coaxing me into warm slumbers, and forgetfulness
i miss the feeling of letting go
of love, of pain, of regret
 Jan 2014 sinderella
Chris
I don't sleep much anymore.
It's the same as when we first met,
even though it's not the same.
I used to think "alone" was an adjective,
now I know it's just the state
of not fitting anywhere.
I don't fit anywhere.
There's nowhere to call home.
I hate being awake,
it just reminds me you're not here.
I hate being asleep,
it just reminds me that I'll wake up.
I don't write much anymore.
I have nothing left.
Words can't describe the 
pounding in my head,
or the emptiness in my bones.
So when you ask, "What's wrong?",
I don't have much to say besides,
"I don't sleep much anymore."
You're like a breath of fresh air
After living in a busy city
Your touch is smoother
That the finest silk I've seen

I could memorise every contour
Every scar                                                            
Every imperfection                                          
that makes you as real                    
and wonderful as you are
And that would never be enough

You're like water washing over me                  
After a day of hard labour                          
Like watching a beautiful sunset                    
After a rough day at work                          
And catching every fallen star    
So that they can live again

Something as simple                                                      
As the way our eyes meet    
And the world melts away  
As we lift the tips of our lips

And the moment our hands touch                            
And intertwine
That was the moment I knew                                    
I wanted for you to always be mine

Like I had an extension of my soul
And it was an overwhelming feeling
To know so well that after so long

This love                                            
This happiness                        
was truly meant to be
 Jan 2014 sinderella
Annelise
Well, I met you in the strangest way possible. Both of our souls have been hurt and torn apart, hit so hard they won't grow back. But I was born with a fierce flame my friend. I was born thinking this world is a chance and a gift, a miracle I want to outlive forever for the sake of my being and the joy of my children. I believe I came into this world to give. To inspire. And the day I met you, it felt like I had failed. Somehow life had forgotten what everyone deserves: hope and faith. A hope in the future, in the beautiful wonders that one can encounter on their way to the tomb. The faith in oneself and in the many beauties of how we all come out of a womb. It might seem stupid and ridiculous but that night, I took my guitar, sat down for a while and made a song to heal your heart. I absorbed your pains and frustrations, your loneliness and desperation to turn them all into my love for this world so you can see there's good, there's life, there's a place you belong to and a sunshine in every cloud. Take it. Take that sunshine and make it the biggest light you've ever known. Follow it no matter where you go, no matter what you do or hate one day when you'll look at yourself. This light is hope and faith. This light is the heritage of my own strength. Now it's time for you to walk out there and make a change.
 Jan 2014 sinderella
La Jongleuse
I’ve been lying awake,
suffocated in plastic,
in the wooden vessel,
the people from town,
have left for the dead.

In my sunlit sleep,
I allow my eyes to roll
into the back of my head.
I spend the time dreaming
and poisoning what Tender
remains inside of my heart.

When I was younger,
it was never a duel.
My mind was home to singular thoughts
I was never playing ping-pong
with the mirror.
But now, I suppose it’s all I do.

You could say that I once knew thirsty color
but I’ll admit I’ve grown to forget
It was dragged out of me.
I once was pretty.
I no longer am.
But this is how they want me to be.

So I, myself became a
lazy Snow White,
paralyzed and possessed by
the emotional Fascists
and their ardent marching
which has made a doormat
of the monumental feelings
I once sheltered.
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