kirana44

It wasn't necessarily the smell of it that calmed me – although that did play its part, yes. Instead, it was the sight of it that did it. The smell was nice, though – the box advertised it as "Dragon's Blood", although how anyone could tell if that's what Dragon's Blood actually smelt like, I have no clue. The box smelt musky, like trees and leaves in the rain, so there was a slight disappointment when the initial smell of the lit stick was nothing but burning wood – but that in itself wasn't bad either. Before the true sent of the incense came through, I was transported to a crisp November night, the bonfire burning brightly,

My partner is not the sort you take home To meet the parents, a bouquet in his hands. He charms them well enough, but I can tell He's the kind of man they warn you about, The one who brings sensible people out In a silent sort of panicked worry. My partner has never been that jealous – When he notices my wandering gaze, He follows them, finds the man I long for And he drinks him in with his eyes, asking "Maybe we can share him later, darling," His eyes sparkling with desire and joy. My partner is not often respected, And when he is, it's fuelled by pure fear. When he speaks, depending on the context, The answering voice

The thing I find myself missing the most? His hands. They're large, warm, the skin slightly dry. The palms feel massive when they engulf my own, And my fingers feel a little too short when I thread them through his own. I remember holding them for the first time, being surprised at the size And the pure dry heat of them radiating against my skin – He sounded amused when I told him, inelegantly, "You've got such massive hands!" His response being, "Are you really that surprised?" His hand giving a gentle squeeze as he said it. Unexceptional to most people, but I love them all the same. I love how delicate they feel when he br

The violin case lies completely pristine, undamaged, The grey felt blending in with the dark tarmac. Its owner lies in a crumpled heap a few feet back, The wreck of his bike a twisted, unrecognisable mass of knotted metal. It could have been anyone who killed him – No lights or reflectors, no space to avoid him, nothing to make him stand out. He had no chance, but drunk as he had been, perhaps he knew that? His body is just as broken as his bike, And the car he hit shows the damage plainly enough. Opening up the case, then, it seems karma has a sense of irony – The sleek wood of the instrument is undented, And in the d

"Hey, how are you?" How am I? I'm fine. Oh, nothing's wrong, Just the usual numbness seeping through my insides, And the voice in my head telling me I'm not good enough. Don't worry, though, I've just had a shitty day so far – Feeling the disapproving eyes of my supposed friends Glance over and through me every time I utter a sentence, The increasing decibels not doing anything to make them really, Really notice me. Not that there's anything to really notice, is there? I've not handed any work in on time for weeks, And there's disappointment in the teacher's eyes too. The voice is getting more and more critical, The guilt

Why is it that, upon you asking me, "Would you go out with me?"  I would say no, No matter how lovely you are to see, Despite the kindness that to me you show? I may love you with all my heart and mind, But this shell I inhabit is distant, Unfeeling to the point of being blind, Despite how my love is so persistent. I am a machine with a human heart, And a human brain full to distraction, My body with its malfunctioning part, A fault, against which I can't take action. And yet, I think, it is better like this, Our love not needing a small, pointless kiss.

"I need you, Franziska. Ever since I met you, I've needed you. Is that…wrong?" She knew what the answer was, or what it should be. Her papa had drilled it into every aspect of her life: Perfection. Everything must be absolutely perfect, from work to hobbies to love. She remembered tentatively asking him, back when she was too young to know herself, What kind of man would you like to be my husband? He just smiled and said, As long as he is as perfect as you, and not slow you down, then any man you like. (with a heavy emphasis on "man"). Back then, being involved with a woman never even crossed her mind. Why should it? Anything other than

You're in pain. I caused it.

It's not that Matt Rutherford can't speak. Of course he can, how can he sing if he can't speak? And it's not like he doesn't want to talk to people. He likes Mike, and Brittany and Santana and everyone else in Glee. No, he's not adverse to speaking. Too bad his mouth won't let him do it. He tries, he really does. But whenever he was asked to read  something out in class, or whenever a girl asked him for his name, he'd freeze. His heart would pound so painfully in his chest, and he would hold his tongue, no matter how badly he just wanted to speak. And he has no idea why this is. The doctor who came to check him out, on a teacher'

Mr. Abbine, I'm going to show you a few pictures. I want you to identify the people for me. "I'll do what I can." Can you tell me who this is? "That's my good for nothing neighbor. He sits around his deck and smokes all day. Then he goes inside and probably gets high from pot or something stupid like that. I'll bet that guy is living off Welfare, the scumbag. Don't even get me started on the whore he keeps around-" Mr. Abbine, please try to keep your answers focused on the subject. Can you identify this woman for me? "That's my mother. She calls me three times a day to complain about how something 'isn't as great as it used to be.' I onc