20. Amateur writings. Studying an entirely science-based degree which doesn't allow much creativity so here is a blog which lets it out.

A vine grows from the seed you once planted in the centre of my sternum. The vine feeds on my blood and is watered by my tears; a beautiful parasite nurtured by sadness which thrives in the dark cavern of my chest. At night, I can feel its thorny tendrils strangling the veins under the pallid skin of my wrists. Unforgiving.

It pierces through my fingertips and snakes out through my fractured ribcage, pulling my frail body down into the ground (whenever I think of you).

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Your lips taste of liquor.

I drink you in

until your warmth

spreads through my veins,

and my thirst is quenched.

Slurring your name

as if it were the first time I’ve said it.

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Isabelle

I named you after the pills that were

meant to stop you.

After all, you were just a ball of cells,

an intricate network of tissues.

Your tiny translucent fingers

closed into fists, angered that

your pea sized heart would never beat.

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Tracey Emin
"Live by the sun, love by the moon."

Daylight crumbles to ash, unveiling a nightmarish underworld - a maze of charred corpses, where unseeing creatures crawl through the dirt on calcified limbs.
Their pallid hands reaching like tendrils for beams of light, which seep down through the fractured canvas. But the fingertips cannot grasp the golden prize, which feathered fiends playfully dangle. Unforgiving and smirking from the oasis above.

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ST