EmazingMessedUpOwsum

     Once there was a girl who had a demon.     Or perhaps, once there was a demon who had a girl.     Often, the lines of ownership became blurred for the girl, or the demon, depending upon whichever party presently felt in control at any given time.     The demon lurked deep within her some days, slumbering inside a little black shell next to her heart, or inside the deepest recesses of her mind, or else some place so deep that she could not even pinpoint its location.     On these days, she was immune to the beast's poison, and so great was her relief from its symptoms that she saw the world as an absolutely breathtaking and beauti

       Once there was a girl who walked upon the water.       For years she'd sat upon the lonely deserted sands of the shoreline, gazing unfocused into the sea before her, a great and flat expanse, moving and unmoving, the waves growing tall, reaching their apex, and crashing back down in upon themselves under their own weight, so that even with such great and mighty fluctuations, the eternal ocean itself largely retained its basic shape. A long flat plane stretching out into infinity, its expanse so immense that these mighty waves were as nothing by comparison, and the body as a whole remained intact with its

  Once there was a girl who rose up from the ashes.  Perhaps the legend of the phoenix would be an apt metaphor, if an incomplete one.  There is always an assumption that the death of the phoenix, its eruption into flames and its temporary destruction, is what makes its feat of resurrection so astonishing. That once the difficulty of death has been faced, the rekindling of life from the charred remains is inevitable, a fact as simple and fundamental as any.  But how many creatures do you truly see that make such a recovery?  How many lives ever truly manage to scramble their way back up from the deepest dredges of lightless existence?

    Should have locked the door I was six years old when I moved to the house which would be my home till my adulthood. The image of the house is still well carved upon my memory, it has not yet become a phantom in the fog, hidden within the depths of my brain. It is as clear as the very room where I'm now, writing this as fast as I can before this account disappears with me. The floor was crooked and broken, filled with dust and sand. The cracked walls rotting away with moisture and in every corner of the living room piles of trash, pyramids of old dusty objects, garbage and dead animals. Creeping beneath our feet in the still intact floor

You will fall in love with a boy who overuses the word ‘fate’ but never the word ‘luck’. When he first locks eyes with you outside a packed bar, where the drinks are over-priced and the silence under-rated, he will worry at his lips in a way that will mean you never notice his eyes, his hair, his anything else. This pair of chapped thin lips will ghost towards you, a flash of ivory enamel, a hint of velvet red gums. You will watch them curve and curl into slightly differentiated shapes, a will o’ wisp of words barely audible over the background hum of your friends, buzzing like wasps, on the other side of the doo