"We are a tick on the skin of this sleeping beast. I know what we are. And we breed, raise, teach... Increase"
— Carolina Outcrop, "Woman"
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“i love you as certain dark things are to be loved, in secret, between the shadow and the soul. i love you as the plant that never blooms but carries in itself the light of hidden flowers; thanks to your love a certain solid fragrance, risen from the earth, lies darkly in my body. i love you without knowing how, or when, or from where.”
— pablo neruda (xvii)
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O pitiful shadow lost in the darkness, bringing torment and pain to others.
O damned soul wallowing in your sin. Perhaps it is time to die.
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“I am a sick man, I am a spiteful man, I am an unattractive man.” - Fiodor Dostoevsky, Notes from the Underground
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we bury our love like we bury the dead
a sudden goodbye
a twinge of regret
then we forget about it
forget the smell of it
the taste of it
the sound
the feel
the whole of it
like the first warm thunderstorm in spring
a mountain trail at midnight in july
a golden misted sunrise
we bury our love like we bury the dead
they go back to the dirt
and we forget they existed
where she grows / the worst of me
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