sweetandrogyny

The Way A little window, In my greying pocket, That opens another way, So another door is shut. A little, pretty window, Obscured by divine and offset implement. That allows the sun to stream upon, The bare angst of my ashen lament. A little window. Upon the mercy flowers, The sweet cherubic face, Of an astringent drink for all. A little, mordant window. Of which bitter hope endows, Beyond it behold beauty. And a trapdoor to the worlds.

The small click of a life support machine and heavy breathing echoed in the glossy room, where fading sunlight flooded the centre, not quite shedding the shafts of golden upon a solitary bed, in which lay a woman, her grey hair thin, her face covered by a mask, her onyx eyes transfixed by the opposite, shining, grey wall. The lock clicked, and the wooden door was opened, but the woman didn't look towards it, stumbling through the doorway came a young woman, no more than 25, a messy brunette with a large black folder, overflowing with paper and drawing equipment. The woman didn't go straight to the aging lady's bedside, but set her work down o

It's unfortunately often that I say things I don't mean. Sometimes not so unfortunately it's because I don't want people to know the truth. I do that often. Like the many days I feel I can't step out our front porch, and although I do, people will question me all day, asking if I'm all right. I tell them I'm fine, but I almost instantly regret it – I want them to know, deep down. I want so much that I'll never get. I can't bear to show myself, instead I hit and I hurt. I don't particularly mind, but it's not me. It's probably the reason for my addiction. My addiction for anonymity behind self-expression, it drives me to be completely tru

The diary contained remnants of old thoughts, a simple year and a half of life preserved in paper. We all know how paper can be so easily destroyed, why would someone want to keep that reminder? Each day a new mistake, a new resolution that was never taken, and truth that began to unfold: however far this person was sinking, they would reach the top one day, the europhoric shout of reaching something that you've wanted and craved for so long. Maybe. The diary concurs.

'She sings of suicide, the flowers that rot beneath your touch. The feminists, the sirens and harpies Who slayed the boys that wooed - the drowned maiden, that enamoured their senses towards her cause the gallows swung beneath half a dozen eggs 3 pints of milk bread washing powder.' The lid of the biro was chewed – which rested upon a strangely neat desk, but for the paper littering it. Among the crushed and coloured folded edges a pattern emerged. 'I' created the sense of someone who was writing a journal, not quite. Shopping lists and old receipts lay among the mess. 'Shampoo - £1.60 Candles - £2.06 Lighters, pack