I wait, you play. You speak, I cave. I promise, you break. You game me, daily, you play me.
Coco J. Ginger
I pretended to be an open book, but I was closed off and conceited.
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All the risks have been taken. Allowing me room to fly.
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Love thy neighbor as thyself. Unless he calls you names. Then do not love him, run in the opposite direction and throw a gerbil at his door.
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Peanut butter is my frenemy.
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I want to read, write, and nothing else. I do not want to get married, I do not want to go to church, I do not want to file taxes; I do not want to eat. But Grandma disagrees, and Grandma always wins.
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He's a gypsy killer. He has a special gypsy killing knife.
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Every fairytale has a villain. All high quality happy endings involve a black-hearted monster. I just didn't want you to be mine.
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.. Hurts not just the heart, but every part.
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It's a finger snapping kind of day.
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Writing is hard. Not as hard as not writing. Not writing is torturous, bloody, chaotic and a gruesome winless battle.A writer who writes, knows peace, lives connected to truth. Not writing is ache, betrayal, death of the soul and imagination.
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The world I held so closely, she played me like a game,I released and left her laughing to stand on my own two feet.
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He brought out the worst in me, and was the best thing that ever happened to me.
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She knew she could never love any man the way she loved a blank sheet of paper that only she could fill.
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She stabbed him with her wicked pretty knife, disrupted his simple life. She's a player, a heartbreaker, and now she breaks alone.
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