firaafics (firaafics) wrote,


A journal entry from Creative Writing. I picked up an orange pen, started writing with it, and this is the love child of it.
The end gets a little too typically teenage-angsty. It's bugging me now.

        Orange for the flames that rose and kissed your legs, your arms, your lips.
    All the things that were mine, promised to me, given from you as a gift to show your undying love, and burning passion.
            Ain’t the only burning thing now, I guess.
You curled up, presumably in pain, but that’s impossible. How could one like you, so coolly destroying another, even begin to know how it feels to have suffering seep into your veins, like a so unwelcome poison, drowning in your veins?
I stared coldly at the embers once you had finished burning, and kick up a few fiery ashes. Hands, unremorseful at the sacrilege destruction, lifted up the next box of unforgiving memorabilia of our tryst through life, and dump it into the white dust. Flames live once more at the grasp at life, from our abandoned love.
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