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LiteratureThe RunawayThere is no roof over my head, and no shoes to cover my feet. My only belongings are my jacket, my dress, a gray Volkswagen Beetle. It's dead of winter, some snow flurries in the air, I'm very cold, clouds of my breath puffing everywhere. I left in a hurry to run from the verbal abuse. They told me I'm worth nothing, that I'm ugly and confused. Now I've no home to return to, and no one else is home. I've parked my car in a field; the ground is frozen where the crops once stood. I sit on the roof of my car and curse myself for not grabbing my converse. As I stare up at the night sky, my dash readLiterature6 Years of YouAt this rate maybe you’ll catch up to me in 6 12 18 24 years from now. How many ages must I wait for you to fucking love me the way I need it.LiteratureTrial by WaterSwim out to me, love; I'm the island in the storm. If you can reach me by daybreak, then you can finally be called a Mermaid.LiteratureGood MorningI lay in bed as the sun rises, cold; I beg my heart to stop beating. Blue light creeps in, casts light on your face, on your hair, my breath, I have to hold. For loving you, believing you love me, too is the biggest lie to myself I've ever told.LiteratureWishing StarsI used to see you in every passing comet tail. In every shining sparkle of a star, in the lovely veil of the Milkey Way. You were a perfect shooting star, running so fast, always dreaming of far-off places. Your presence was fleeting, when I thought I had you close, when I needed to wish upon you the most, in a flash of stardust, you disappeared. Plummeting to earth in an asteroid's guise, I feared you hit the surface and were cosmically lost on a planet not your own; A starchild crashlanded in a world of non-believers, a celestial princess on Earth.LiteratureRegretThere are many things I could have said and would have said if I had perhaps been braver. There's a well-thumbed thesaurus sitting in my head, tabs marking the pages in faded colors and notes scrawled across the pages. The binding is cracked and the pages are yellowed -- I never spoke these now-dusty thoughts to you. How grand would it be if you came across this aging text, gingerly opened it and peered inside? To see all I've kept in, for one reason or another, and even though your heart is taken, have it flutter by my sincere words? You'd cover your chest to quiet it, but it should beat defiantly against your will. How dreamlike would it be