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About Varied / Hobbyist Erika TuppsFemale/Japan Recent Activity
Deviant for 12 Years
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Literature
Once Upon a Time
Who knew the brush of fingertips could be translated
Not into words; but into sensations not felt with the hands
Sensations felt with the heart and soul as flutters and pauses
Pauses that seem to last a lifetime but occur in a breath
A whisper containing the weight of every moment like this one
So seemingly concrete I can almost hold them in my palm
And count them as a measure of how much our love is worth
Priceless artifacts of our history not yet dusty in their youth
Slipping through my fingers in their already overwhelming numbers
Settling back into our memories still warm from my touch
To be recalled as a beginning to our once upon a time
When the time becomes long, long ago and we still speak
In the silent language of a shared moment between fingertips
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Literature
Butterflies wish...be like you
Title: Butterflies wish they could be like you.
I've always sympathized with the moth
Butterflies of the night
Competing with their sunlit counterparts
Their graceful beauty gifted by God
I've waited my whole life
For the cacoon to set me free
Only to realize this is it
Doomed to the shadows of "if only"
But that's okay
Because you're light is worth it all
Loving you is like oxygen
Like a moth to the flames
And you make me feel
Like even butterflies should be ashamed
When I'm with you, all ese fades
And I'm not so ordinary anymore
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Literature
First Flight
My back hits the firm surface of the stretcher. I struggle to keep my eyes open to the aftermath. The air smells of blood. The pavement is bathed in broken glass and the flashing blue and red lights of emergency vehicles. “I want my mom.” My throat is dry and scratchy. A masculine voice responds. “I’m sorry. There’s no other room on the chopper.” They wheel me toward the helicopter waiting to take me to the hospital. I groan in protest.
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Literature
The Leather Wristband
She is done
Looking at his things.
Deciding to box them up.
Return them to him.
Letters. Stuffed toys. Photographs.
Everything.
Except the leather wristband
That once carved her wrist
Every day
For a year.
Faded. Brown. Worn.
His favorite possession.
Tossed atop the dresser.
Absent from the box.
Her revenge.
:iconrabidcaribou:rabidcaribou
:iconrabidcaribou:rabidcaribou 1 1
Literature
Lost
My map is torn
And my compass broken,
The glass in fragments
At my feet.
The blank pages of
The calendar upon the wall
Are quickly turning
Of their own accord.
I sleep through the day,
Tossing and turning,
Though my eyes
Are wide open.
The alarm clock
Keeps ringing as
The hands keep spinning
Though they are frozen.
The seasons change
As the leaves fall
And the flowers bloom
All in the same moment.
I’ve lost the keys to
The padlock hanging on
The hasp of the door that stands
In front of and behind me.
:iconrabidcaribou:rabidcaribou
:iconrabidcaribou:rabidcaribou 0 1

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