Mica Harrington Gore
Bio
Stories (5/0)
My mom didn't find my stash
The one time the weed wasn't mine. I just turned eighteen and I was lucky enough to have a savings account my grandfather set up for me when I was born. I used that money to pay the deposit on a trailer my best friend was about to be evicted from. My boyfriend at the time, we’ll call him Bear, was moving in with us. I was getting used to my new place and my parents decided to help me move all of my things. I didn’t think anything of it at first until my mom started reporting back to me what she found in my room. Needless to say I was an experimental teen and we kept most of her findings between us, it’s for the best.
By Mica Harrington Gore2 years ago in Potent
I am my own tragedy
I am my very own tragedy. I love so much and so deeply. My love reaches out and embraces those around me with the warmth of the sun and the gentleness of the moon. Worry has always been my blind spot though. See, my love embraces those I'm close to, but never myself. It's almost like my love isn't reaching, it's escaping because it has no home.
By Mica Harrington Gore2 years ago in Poets
Afflicted
Nobody can hear a scream in the vacuum of space, or so they say. They were right. I am hopelessly spinning in space, like a squishy bag of bones. Praying that the impossible will become possible, even just for a moment. Just long enough for someone to hear me. Not like anyone else is out here with me to hear it anyways. I’m not sure how long I’ve been out here for or how far away I’ve drifted. Despite the beauty of the stars and heavens all around me; all I can think about is my station being pushed out of orbit and a huge hole being ripped into the side of it. I was lucky enough to already be in my suit, on my way to make an external repair. My six crew members weren’t so lucky. I could only watch and scream as my crew was sucked out of the station and now drifting lifelessly just as I should be.
By Mica Harrington Gore2 years ago in Fiction
Worthy
Part your feet and cross your legs when you sit. Sit up straight with shoulders high to show you are not a flower to be plucked from the rosebed; but he will pluck you anyways and with your thorns, he will feel the regret in his chest. Your skin will rot and decay with every touch, leaving you without worth.
By Mica Harrington Gore6 years ago in Poets