Her heart went hot in a flame of hate beating cruel and alone in the darkness.
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Sharing poems & thoughts, one redacted word at a time.
Her heart went hot in a flame of hate beating cruel and alone in the darkness.
I am better alone I think, an eclectic coffee table stacked with books, I feel more vulnerable to this than to any lover.
A little voice in my mind would admit I deeply denied how his promises of comfort and love are empty desire. A sugar rush. I feel momentarily moved, but alone.
My veins of ice and such chilliness does not alarm me. I require to be alone.
For a few moments she was left alone, these moments of solitude, free from eyes upon her, felt good.
The bookworm, left alone to read. One page is too elusive. Another minute here, just a little more time.
She feels unmoored - he is so entirely mysterious indecipherable, and the days spent alone with him seem effortless.
A woman alone, who'll protect her? She'll be too exposed, too peculiar, too public.
I seek no love or happiness, I am content to suffer alone as once I falsely hoped to meet a love comparable to mine.
I have fought and conquered the dark alone. I feel I am a dangerous woman.