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Literature Text
the night he held my hand for the first time, we almost died. but we didn't. die, i mean. the car fishtailed and he lost control and i froze up tighter strung than the seatbelt holding me and we almost flipped, but we didn't. flip, i mean. the first thing he did after the car stopped swerving was put his hand on my leg and ask if i was okay.
"are you okay?"
"yeah."
then he waited a moment and i took his hand in mine and he asked again.
"are you okay?"
"yes. calm down. you're alive, i'm alive, the car is fine. we're both probably in shock though, but i don't think we'll die of that."
he laughed and squeezed my hand and i squeezed back. we stayed like that for a while, until we got back to town and i almost let go but didn't. let go, i mean. he remarked as to how lucky he was and brought god into it.
"i am incredibly lucky."
"why do you say that?"
"everything. i live a happy life and we didn't just die. i mean, there is a God. there must be."
i didn't tell him that i had more reason to believe than most, but i almost did. tell him, i mean. but i did tell him, while i was in the confessing mood, about my anxiety and addictive personality. he took it all in stride.
"i would have never guessed you have stories like this. you hide it so well."
the first night we held hands was also the night that he first kissed me and said "how's that for a change in pace?" i was almost surprised and thanked him twice for listening.
but i wasn't. surprised, i mean.
Literature
When I Come to See You
When I come to see you
I’ll bring sparkling wine
And we’ll spill it on the floor.
I’ll be ready for your smile.
When your arms are round me
With my belly pressed to yours,
I’ll close my longing eyes.
I’ll be ready for your soul.
And in the early morning
I will open out our fingers
And silently I’ll go.
Deep breath.
Not ready yet.
Literature
Angstxiety
I am work weak on Wednesday
in a heap of hangover and hesitation
with fingers on a phone haptically
actively anticipating feedback—
I need that why do I need that.
My angst and anxiety
is constant and courses
and throbs with a pulse
that demands concern
of a baby boomer crooning poetic
in the distance to call me antisocial, or you know,
you could just call me.
If being this busy in an age
of constant communication
feels like having slept
but not feeling rested,
I'd rather cancel my plans
like a responsible millennial
and go to bed.
Literature
Why do you still love me?
A little girl was crying one day.
A little boy sat next to her.
He began to comfort her.
He was her friend.
She suddenly broke her sobs and asked,
"Why do you love me?
There are prettier, cuter, and girls that are more angelic than I am, but why do you still love me?"
The boy did not reply.
He assumed that she was going to go on in explanation to support her question.
So the little girl went on,
"Why do you still love me? There are smarter, brainier, and girl that have more knowledge than I do, but why do you stilllove me?"
The boy, once again, did not reply.
The girl's sobs subsided and spoke once more,
"Why do you still l
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nonfiction. second time skirting death. and i thought i was done with being dangerous.
because of the nonfiction nature of this piece, i decided to keep it as truthful as i could and not embellish for the sake of literary beauty.
TRUE STORY.
nonfiction. second time skirting death. and i thought i was done with being dangerous.
because of the nonfiction nature of this piece, i decided to keep it as truthful as i could and not embellish for the sake of literary beauty.
TRUE STORY.
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very beautiful; i was hoping it was a true story. something about it felt very sincere. i loved the pattern of the "______, i mean." very clever.