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Literature Text
She slips into the warm water fast like a dropping bomb.
Not sexy like the Swedish models dipping their skinny bodies into a tub.
Her skin crawls with goosebumps from the unexpected temperature.
Slowly, she glides her feet down her legs, softening the new bumps.
She feels like those models.
Her toes are covered in bubbles and she wipes them on the tile walls.
In this bath she forgets things like:
How she could lose a few inches around her legs.
How she lost the boy of her dreams.
How her stomach used to sink under the water, but now it protrudes.
She dries her hands off on a washcloth to light a cigarette.
With the white terry over her eyes she drowns in her own smoke.
The soap dish is her own personal ashtray and she finds it blind, with ease.
Jazz music slowly seeps into her ears and she is learning to love the sound of his voice.
She needs something to love.
“A beer,” she thinks.
“A beer would make this perfect.”
But she doesn’t need it.
Not the way she needs his legs around hers, wrinkling into each other until their raisin toes touch and repel.
She can feel the embers getting closer to her fingers and dips the ash into the tub.
The water gets dirtier and dirtier with each passing second as her dead skin melts off of her and floats around, getting stuck to the porcelain.
She feels clean.
She feels new.
The white soapy bubbles continue to crack and pop around her and they sound like the burning paper from her cigarette.
She has to take off the washcloth to see if she put it out.
She did.
It lays on the soap dish, wet and lonely.
She lays in the tub, feeling the same.
But she smiles because it makes her happy to.
Her phone rings next to her on the toilet.
And she remembers things like:
How she could lose a few inches around her legs.
How she lost the boy of her dreams.
How her stomach used to sink under the water, but now it protrudes.
And how she could really use his legs around hers, wrinkling into each other until their raisin toes touch and repel.
Not sexy like the Swedish models dipping their skinny bodies into a tub.
Her skin crawls with goosebumps from the unexpected temperature.
Slowly, she glides her feet down her legs, softening the new bumps.
She feels like those models.
Her toes are covered in bubbles and she wipes them on the tile walls.
In this bath she forgets things like:
How she could lose a few inches around her legs.
How she lost the boy of her dreams.
How her stomach used to sink under the water, but now it protrudes.
She dries her hands off on a washcloth to light a cigarette.
With the white terry over her eyes she drowns in her own smoke.
The soap dish is her own personal ashtray and she finds it blind, with ease.
Jazz music slowly seeps into her ears and she is learning to love the sound of his voice.
She needs something to love.
“A beer,” she thinks.
“A beer would make this perfect.”
But she doesn’t need it.
Not the way she needs his legs around hers, wrinkling into each other until their raisin toes touch and repel.
She can feel the embers getting closer to her fingers and dips the ash into the tub.
The water gets dirtier and dirtier with each passing second as her dead skin melts off of her and floats around, getting stuck to the porcelain.
She feels clean.
She feels new.
The white soapy bubbles continue to crack and pop around her and they sound like the burning paper from her cigarette.
She has to take off the washcloth to see if she put it out.
She did.
It lays on the soap dish, wet and lonely.
She lays in the tub, feeling the same.
But she smiles because it makes her happy to.
Her phone rings next to her on the toilet.
And she remembers things like:
How she could lose a few inches around her legs.
How she lost the boy of her dreams.
How her stomach used to sink under the water, but now it protrudes.
And how she could really use his legs around hers, wrinkling into each other until their raisin toes touch and repel.
Literature
And the moral of love is:
Hello, it's me, I love you. I swear -
things might be that simple.
But I don't
believe in things like love at first sight, just
forever. And they're different.
I don't
believe that you look in someones eyes and
know them
before you know what those eyes
look like when they're
furious-sad-ecstatic-hopeful-jealous-possessive-innocent.
You just see brown
or blue
or hazel with green and gold flecks, and maybe
you see warmth, or maybe
you see the kind of hurt that
people carry deep down inside, like tissues in
the back pocket of my purse
to wipe away the proof that sometimes
I cry, and can't explain it. And maybe
you see
the ki
Literature
-Love- Sexual
Press your mouth
Hard
Onto mine
Tonight
I don't care who I am
Only who I'm with
And I need
To be
With you
Just hold me now
Entwine your fingers
In my hair
And let your gliding hands
Whisper all the secrets
You will never tell me
Push me down
And keep me here
I'd rather suffocate
Under your weight
Than ever come up
For air
Again
Let me feel your skin
On mine
Ignoring the rising heat
Because I'm so lost
In your eyes
In the passion
That becomes us
I only want
To feel you
Because togetherness
Is what I crave tonight
To hold you close and
Make tangible our Love
So push yourself
Deep within me
And touch me
So s
Literature
Kiss
You don't need to put your hair up
To show you wear a crown
You don't need to paint your face up
To make my walls fall down
You don't need a Wonderbra
To let your sexy shine
You don't need gold or diamonds
To tell the world you're fine
You don't need designer clothes
To prove that you have class
You don't need to know Houdini
To make the magic last
All you need is your sweet love
To be the woman I dream of.
Suggested Collections
baths.
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Comments11
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such a good story and would make a good short comic book