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Literature Text
she was the girl of skin-covered bones, sunken waterlily eyes, and papier-mâché words. but the thing i miss most about her was the sound of her eyelashes brushing over her cheeks. there wasn't much else to her than her gentle music; you couldn't really see her, you could only hear her presence: her shallow breathing, her feeble heartbeat.
but now her body is nothing but ash and ice, floating far beneath the surface.
and i really wonder if she was really alive to begin with, because it was winter when she died, both literally and figuratively. she had seasons: summer was burning, winter was frozen over. autumn was middle ground, and spring frankly didn't matter because she slept straight through.
she was a solstice, an equinox, a stunning star just waiting to implode.
that day, she told me that she weighed seventy-four-point-three pounds. i made the mistake of telling her that that wasn't beautiful.
she told me she was tired and said she'd spend tomorrow catching up on her rest. now i don't ever want to lay myself down again.
she called me and told me she was on fire; i told her she couldn't have been on fire because it was the middle of the winter.
she hung up.
she never called back.
but now her body is nothing but ash and ice, floating far beneath the surface.
and i really wonder if she was really alive to begin with, because it was winter when she died, both literally and figuratively. she had seasons: summer was burning, winter was frozen over. autumn was middle ground, and spring frankly didn't matter because she slept straight through.
she was a solstice, an equinox, a stunning star just waiting to implode.
that day, she told me that she weighed seventy-four-point-three pounds. i made the mistake of telling her that that wasn't beautiful.
she told me she was tired and said she'd spend tomorrow catching up on her rest. now i don't ever want to lay myself down again.
she called me and told me she was on fire; i told her she couldn't have been on fire because it was the middle of the winter.
she hung up.
she never called back.
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she was a solstice, an equinox, a stunning star just waiting to implode.
This paints a heavy picture. I love it.
This paints a heavy picture. I love it.