10 May 2010

cleare knew she was a house built with broken twigs

and she once knew a boy who, upon their meeting, looked right into her. he was humble and at the same time, anatomically perfect. he wore lips that curved like a gentle river, hands that sculpted and moistened everything he touched. she could feel the sensual heat in his lungs just by sitting next to him.

but all of these magic mysteries were kinetic like an old carnival machine. because when he closed his eyes, or maybe opened them halfway, he was the most detached and dispassionate person she'd ever known. and by trying to protect himself from human nature, he had become what he saw as unfit in others.

and she realised that the only thing worse than a house built with broken twigs is a house built with bullet-proof iron.

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