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Crossing the RubiconYour sweet words are addicting
And full of shit
You dribble lies from your lips
And they smell like honey
But they taste like dirt
And I know that I made my choice
And that I was right all along
Your tongue is a snake
Swirling and struggling
Striking me down
With a constant flavor of poison in your mouth
Yet still you slip your hands between the salt and pepper shakers
And grab mine
You killed this
I'm holding you accountable
Holding your bloody hands
and feeling nothing but regret
The waitress leaves a bill
I put down a 20
Pull away from your grasp
And I leave you staring out the window
Where you can see the reflection
Of how messed up this relationship really was
My feet hit the pavement
And I risk a sob
But I don't look back
Point of no return
Beautiful Ugly: Chapter Two" don't know what you were thinking, Astrid. She's just a girl. She has no clue what you did to her."
"What I did to her? I just gave her the gift of a lifetime."
"Gift? You know it's not a gift. That's why you gave it to her in the first place, so you wouldn't have it any more. God, you're so incredibly selfish. You saw something. You wanted it. So, of course, you got it. And then, as soon as you realize the consequences of your actions, you give the problem to someone else!"
"No. I warned you. I warned you not to look in the mirror. But did you listen? No! And then I told you we would get rid of this stupid curse together. But instead, you give it to someone else. You don't ever listen to me."
"And now, this poor girl is in danger-"
"The only reason you're pitying her is because you're attracted to her. Isn't that why you wanted to help me?"
"You know that's not true."
"No, Mika! It is. So you know what? Go save your new girlfriend. I'm done wi
Beautiful Ugly: Chapter OneWe were traveling across the Sahara desert in 110 degree heat. Okay, so maybe that's a bit overdramatic. But it was extremely hot. The sun beat down on me as I dragged the dead weight blue cooler through the sand. Every pore in my body was sweating and I was starting to feel pretty gross. I looked longingly at the ocean. So close and yet so far away.
"I think I see a really good spot over there," my stepfather announced in a voice that clearly said he was a master at picking perfect beach spots. I didn't particularly care how perfect it was, as long as I didn't die of heat stroke.
"You said that ten minutes ago," I grumbled under my breath, making my young brother, Bobby, snicker and my mother look at me reproachfully.
"Behave," she warned. "George paid a lot of money so we could have this family vacation."
"Yeah, well, George didn't need to," I replied. "Dad was always able to find cheap beaches for us to go to." A pained expression crossed my mother's face and I immediately regretted
WAKE UPWhat's your problem?
Yeah. I mean you.
What is your problem?
You look at me as if I've lost my mind
And you're wondering if I've left behind
My sanity at home today.
Who does this crazy chick think she is
Preaching about problems
When she's definitely got some of her own?
Maybe I do,
But at least I own up to it.
So, let me ask you again,
What is YOUR problem?
You sit there in an apathetic stupor
As your brain reaches a low power level
And you fade into senseless oblivion
and nothing gets past your eyes
Because they're covered with a film
Blinding you into innocent ignorance
So that, You. Have. No. Idea.
People are dying
in pools of their own blood
And you sit there sighing?
Wondering why your life is such a bore
Pay attention now.
I'll cut to the chase
Because I see you're tiring already
Wasting every day
In a duct taped plastic box
Your monotonous schedule
Drilling into your brain
Again and again
Until slowly, it breaks down and rot
Not For SaleAm I can of soup?
Or a doll in a plastic box?
You label me like I have a price
So, how much do I cost?
A little bit of laughter
A little bit of tears
That guilty feeling that you hide away
That you don't seem to feel till the end of the day
So, come right up
Add me to your shopping bag
Cause really, how MUCH do I cost?
You don't even know
Cause your friends are more important than strangers
And no matter how many times you break me
I'll heal myself again
Your teasing gets old
Yet still you beat me
Like a pinata full of candy
Cause I'm just a crack on your wall
Just a tear in the rain
And you have no fuckin' clue
How much I cost
Maybe an eye with out a sparkle
Or a smile that has been lost
The cashier has been waiting
How much do I cost?
Enter the DarknessTwinkling stars beyond my control
If I could, I would blow them away
Darkness boils like water in my heart
I'd apologize if I knew what to say
My tongue is rotting with deceit and lies
Slipping through my lips like a sand in a sieve
You poisoned me with your happiness and joy
With the sunshine you painted and your will to live
I'm evil, I'm heartless, the worst of the worst
I am the shadows lurking in the corners of your room
But instead of running, you turned on the light
Innocently, you welcomed your impending doom
You wrapped me in ribbons and kissed my nose
Like an angel, you threaded me with ethereal light
My pitch black blanket had already been sown
Yet "adieu" I pretended to say to the night
You were serious, I know, but of that I didn't care
I was a blank pistol and you loaded me like a gun
You happily watched as I shot down all hope
You applauded when I slashed apart the sun
I left you in a ditch, a broken, cold corpse
Blood pulsing, tears streaming, you cried and you cried
A Turning Point in the Clockwork WarA war of attrition
depends on supply and drawdown,
how much you have and how much you use up.
With personnel, the balance concerns
the influx of recruitment versus
the outflow of casualties, deserters, invalids.
There is only so much loss
that a fighting force can sustain
and still fight.
Pilot Claude Archer was the first
to challenge his invalid discharge.
"I don't need legs to fly," he said,
patting the healed stumps of his thighs.
"My Osprey runs on elbow grease."
The members of the discharge board
paused and looked at each other.
What he said was true.
The Osprey-class fighter jets
relied on hand controls,
and a sharp eye and iron nerve.
Fingers flicked through the stack
of discharge papers -- so many, many pages.
So many soldiers lost, never to fight again.
They could not afford to let slip even one
who might be retained, somehow,
to face the front line once more.
Far less could the war effort spare
one of its best pilots.
So they put Pilot Archer back on the roster,
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