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for the sleepless

i wanted to take photographs so it wasnt  lost. so that i may have not been buried in dream when i felt and saw those things. bottle of wine i can throw out Ballentines stacked sky-high, and my bed in disarray, my room in disarray, my mind in oblivion. i took them two at a time marched their bodies on my tongue and swallowed with a stale sip to drown it out. but i woke up before my time and now i fear that i wont have enough supplies to survive tomorrow, and im afraid because deep down i want my body to feel as much pain as my heart does. it hurts for the abandon. for the laughter and the unashamed welcomeness, like a wolf in with the sheep there are reasons we bare shepards at our gate and lock the lambs in at night. hunter. i tell myself i can be stronger but my casualty is there with the rest of the slaughter, unsuspecting, as slaughters are, and irrevocable. was it a dress i wore for you did she wear it too? were my lines to long my prose too composed? or were the flaws of identity enough to strike the blow. we will not know. silence is the killer, across a dead and  drastic line alone in my own head these thoughts they do their best. they licked what they had liked and tore the rest from simple lust and spite for food. the worst is it was brief but strong because we all know it’s the touches that are hottest that keep us scalded for much too long. my hand lay on the iron a little too long. some will read. some will wonder at the lines that i treat with need and leave to myself as much as to someone else. it’s a prayer a deep single prayer shaking my stomach free. if i had known it would be the last time i would not have dashed in the rain i would have said my good byes and lingered longer before catching that cab. if i had known there would be a change i would have stayed in bed and held that day tighter than i know how. but we do not know these things, perhaps i should pick up my hand at tarot cards again. it was a dream. i have no proof. i just wonder how ill sleep now.


About deadendemily

Emily lives in Austin, TX. She has a minor in chaos and a major in spray paint. She likes Vincent Price and ABBA. She enjoys being covered in fake blood and writing horror stories. Most of the time she just hopes that her cat is not plotting to murder her, her cat being a minion of Satan and all. They would never suspect the cat.

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