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Love. Just a four letter word.Love. Just a four letter word. Yet, for some reason, the bastards of the world deem it appropriate to limit how we define it. They think it's perfectly fair. They look at us as though, somehow, we're WRONG. But this isn't a choice we make. Nor is it any reason for them to discriminate. This is who we are. And no amount of death threats, or vandalism of our lockers is going to change us. Who we love, and why we love them should not dictate the treatment we receive from another living being. No matter how many times our parents say that it's only a phase, they're the ones who are being immature. No matter how many people say that what we're doing is wrong, or even unholy, they're the ones who are going to hell. Enough suffering has been caused, simply because we disagree on the definition of one simple little word. So spread the message. LOVE.
The Looking Glass GirlPiercing blue eyes, boring into my soul. These are the eyes of the world. These eyes, that have seen so many deaths, so many so close be lost forever. These eyes, that have been to hell and back, have looked death in the face and said,"I'll never back down!" These eyes, that have been to wonderland, and seen it's 'wonders'. These eyes, that know what it means to love and loose, know the pain of truth. These are the eyes of the looking glass girl.
Blood red lips, never moving from their cheshire grin. These lips have said the words so many are afraid to say. These lips have spoken the words of truth that lie within our hearts. These are the lips of the looking glass girl.
The Coffee GodThe Coffee God behind the counter shuffles foot to foot, a dance of steam and espresso. Black painted fingernails, inch gauged ears and a gray striped sweatshirt, hood crooked on his back. There's a cigarette tucked behind one ear; it bobs and twitches with each step.
“Non-fat caramel latte,” he calls, just as he always does, part of a spell, part of a mantra, toneless (just a tuck at the end). I reach. He looks up.
The espresso maker hisses.
There's something like a grin, something like a spark, something like a shared secret linked eye to eye. When he passes over the drink (rough cardboard sleeve hot to the touch), he lingers. Our fingers brush, a shiver, a jolt, a ten-watt shock.
The Coffee God tilts his chin, shouts, “Hey, mind if I take my break now?”
and ducks around the counter without waiting for a reply.
He slips his cigarette between his lips without taking his eyes from mine. I follow him out the door.
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