Blotches. Like… spots, I’m guessing. Yes. Spots. I like them on tie dyed shirts. Yeah. Or on bunnies. Bunnies are cute. I’m drinking a smoothie. Smoothies don’t have blotches. Ugh. I’m having writers block. Rahhhh!
I don’t wear make-up very often. I don’t like it much. When I wear it, it makes my face itch and often I scratch, forgetting that I am wearing make-up. It becomes a huge mess and I have to find a bathroom, wash it off, and start again. It’s a vicious cycle that never ends.
They sicken me. Each blotch tells me that I am no model. That I am average, or less than average. Blotches are icky, and leave me feeling sorry for myself. Like I need a blotch to tell me I am no beauty queen. I know this already.
the ink blotches like at the therapist when he tells you to look at the page and you think it looksl ike a butterfly but it could also look like a devil or something if you’re fucked up. eric’s laughing at me but that’s what i’m thinking about. i always worry that i’ll be the one that’s fucked up and sees something weird omg he wont stop laughing STOP.
spotts, messy, florid, red, purple, bruising, stains, wine, wet, splashes, her face was covered in purplish blotches, indicating problems with digestion
blotchy skin from tears crying running down your face crying when no one can hear you so no one asks you what’s wrong. i don’t want to tell you what’s wrong i don’t want you to worry about me, you have enough to worry about as it is.
She has red blotches on her face. She thought maybe it was from that apple she had eaten earlier. She’s allergic to apples. And now she can’t go on her date with the man of her dreams because she looks hideous
It was the thing that annoyed me the most about myself. Those damn sun splotches; sun blotches on my arms. What are they? Why do they appear the way they do? Mitch says it’s skin cancer… as a joke. Living off of dollar store Cocoa Butter!
Back in elementary school we had to be careful to keep blotches off our permanent record. The words “blotches” and “permanent” have always held a note of terror for me, like original sin, something that needed a sacrament to remove it.
I watched as his complexion drained until the only bit of color were blotches of pink on his cheeks. Once again, he had said more than he intended.
By now, I knew from experience what he would say if I called him on this, so I let it pass. But I raised my left eyebrow just the tiniest fraction while meeting his gaze. I wanted him to KNOW I was letting it pass. But I would remember, oh yes.
spots everywhere
spots of all sorts of things
on my life
blotches of people, problems, things, emotions
every blotch
unique to itself
as time goes by more and more appear
none fade
There were blotches of blood everywhere, some on bodies that we clotting, which was good considering that people would heal but for others it was useless they were already death, some from hunger, some from torture and some from today’s shooting. More scaring as that for some the blood was not clotting, it was still running freely after minutes. That night on Tarsus IV was one of the scariest from Jim, corpses running everywhere, that was when he decided to survive by any means necessary he did not want to be just some nameless corpse. That was the first time that he gave himself freely and consensually.
blotches are blotchy. Sometimes you get blotches of ink and you have to look at them and then people analyse you and say that you are crazy. That is almost certainly what this test is about as well. ANyway, back to blotches, they are usually irregular in shape and are generally deemed to be a bad thing. Sometimes they are stains or bad skin.
Blotches are super annoying. On your face, on your body, on your clothes. They really have no point in existing except to frustrate people. What the hell blotches. Leave us alone.
Splotches of red under the skin form when he doesn’t sleep. The veins and arteries all purple and blue, rising, coursing and feeding the splashes of red that pool in the cracks of his exhausted features. This is what it feels like to be old, and he knows this though he’s young.
Blotches are red and not attractive. If on the face, they create a unnatural look that will not be pleasant. Red blotches on the face can be fixed by makeup. However, blotching is not a bad thing, sometimes its good to have a natural look.
Blotches are a common and annoying result of a broken pen. Blotches occur in several different forms, from the small, “ahh damn, my pens leaked,” to a force 10 “Holy F*ck, was I carrying an oil tacnker in my back pocket?”
blotches on the skin from over-tanning
blotches on the sun for the gases and makeup of the solar system
blotches on your jeans when you spill the bleach
big little small blotches
blotches of ink. look pretty on the paper. paper is made of wood. blotches and wood…see a connection but not sure if it is that clear. i like blotches though. have a distinct artistic quality to them. you see what you want to see in them. the depth on an ink blotch speaks volumes of truths.
I have absolutely no idea what blotches means. Is it similar to blisters or something like that? I guess the word just has that sort of ring to it. Oh well… This is sort of becoming a failure. Sixty seconds to write about a word and I don’t even know what the word means. And that calls himself a fluent English speaker…
The blotches that most quickly come to mind are in blotches. Little marks that tell a trained professional about who you are deep inside. Do you see a butterfly? An Axe? are you a killer or a humanitarian
The blotches know.
Blotches. Spots. A Rorshach test. They have no inherent meaning. We put in our experiences and draw the meaning for ourselves. To interpret is to be human.
He sauntered up to me with a knowing little smirk tilting one corner of his sumptuous lips upward, a hint of a dimple showing. Leaning down, he lightly pressed those lips to my ear and whispered, “You’re blushing” as the blood flying through my pounding heart appeared in little patterned splotches, common for the Anglo-Saxon skin type.
I stared from my hiding spot around the corner, three lockers down, and watched my crush whisper in his girlfriend’s ear.
i see blotches on my eyes, which so often disguise, the simple clear escape, i’m seeking in your lies. And when i can erase, this smudge i call a phase, i look behind my stare, and find you are not there.
There are so many blotches of blotch on my face. Blotches here, blotches there. The only thing I can do about it is blotch it with a blotch pad. I hope writing about it helps me get rid of them!
The blotches of ink stared blankly back at him, their faces turning nightmarish in his brain. Suddenly a flood of memories overcame him, bearing down like a cold, crushing wave.
Blotches, stained the carpet. Dry ink as dark as tears. I stared down at this mess and felt apprehension. We were leaving our home, full of our mistakes; our mishaps, our memories, to strangers. Strangers who would probably, rip, tear, shred and pull out part of our patchworked stories
Damn these blotches. I can’t see what’s she written. Is it a yes there? or a no? Does she want me or does she not? Did she cry while writing this, or does she have a leaky roof?
The blotches on her skin made her cheeks red. The chill wind whipped her face and made the skin tingle. These blotches would stay until she ran her hands along them, making the blood circulate. When she opened the door and got inside she took off her gloves and hat and vigorously rubbed rubbed her hands along her cheeks, warming them until the blotches dissappeared.
“Oh god, what IS that?”
“I’m just allergic, okay?”
“But… those blotches…”
“I know, they’re kinda gross.”
“Gross, NOTHING. Those blotches are goddamn necrosis, man.”
“Oh, yeah.” I shrug.
“‘Oh, yeah?'”
“Yeah, I’m a zombie.”
“Oh, okay.”
of paint on the ceiling remind me of that movie i saw with the dead man on the roof. they went up the stairs and they found a zombie. and then the zombie ate them and they lived happily ever after
There were small blotches on his skin, obvious signs of Stage II, but she wrapped her arms around his neck anyway.
“You’ll catch the virus.” He muttered trying to pull away. “ I love you too much to give you the disease. Wait till they’ve a cure.”
“I don’t want to wait.”
The man sauntered down the street, sulking, trying to patch up his weary heart. Growing weaker by the momment, he lay down in the patches of snow. Blotches formed around his face as his scares taunted the present.
Blotches. Like… spots, I’m guessing. Yes. Spots. I like them on tie dyed shirts. Yeah. Or on bunnies. Bunnies are cute. I’m drinking a smoothie. Smoothies don’t have blotches. Ugh. I’m having writers block. Rahhhh!
I don’t wear make-up very often. I don’t like it much. When I wear it, it makes my face itch and often I scratch, forgetting that I am wearing make-up. It becomes a huge mess and I have to find a bathroom, wash it off, and start again. It’s a vicious cycle that never ends.
Two drops cascade
from eyes red-rimmed
red blotches bloom
saline skimmed.
Such real fears
negate movie-star tears.
They sicken me. Each blotch tells me that I am no model. That I am average, or less than average. Blotches are icky, and leave me feeling sorry for myself. Like I need a blotch to tell me I am no beauty queen. I know this already.
My face, my angular, romantic face. Spotted by freckles but too, blotches of another sort. I won’t afford the medication.
the ink blotches like at the therapist when he tells you to look at the page and you think it looksl ike a butterfly but it could also look like a devil or something if you’re fucked up. eric’s laughing at me but that’s what i’m thinking about. i always worry that i’ll be the one that’s fucked up and sees something weird omg he wont stop laughing STOP.
spotts, messy, florid, red, purple, bruising, stains, wine, wet, splashes, her face was covered in purplish blotches, indicating problems with digestion
blotchy skin from tears crying running down your face crying when no one can hear you so no one asks you what’s wrong. i don’t want to tell you what’s wrong i don’t want you to worry about me, you have enough to worry about as it is.
She has red blotches on her face. She thought maybe it was from that apple she had eaten earlier. She’s allergic to apples. And now she can’t go on her date with the man of her dreams because she looks hideous
Blotches of paint, randomly spattered on a sidewalk in Chinatown in Montreal, red and white, like vomit and blood on the sidewalk.
It was the thing that annoyed me the most about myself. Those damn sun splotches; sun blotches on my arms. What are they? Why do they appear the way they do? Mitch says it’s skin cancer… as a joke. Living off of dollar store Cocoa Butter!
Back in elementary school we had to be careful to keep blotches off our permanent record. The words “blotches” and “permanent” have always held a note of terror for me, like original sin, something that needed a sacrament to remove it.
I watched as his complexion drained until the only bit of color were blotches of pink on his cheeks. Once again, he had said more than he intended.
By now, I knew from experience what he would say if I called him on this, so I let it pass. But I raised my left eyebrow just the tiniest fraction while meeting his gaze. I wanted him to KNOW I was letting it pass. But I would remember, oh yes.
spots everywhere
spots of all sorts of things
on my life
blotches of people, problems, things, emotions
every blotch
unique to itself
as time goes by more and more appear
none fade
There were blotches of blood everywhere, some on bodies that we clotting, which was good considering that people would heal but for others it was useless they were already death, some from hunger, some from torture and some from today’s shooting. More scaring as that for some the blood was not clotting, it was still running freely after minutes. That night on Tarsus IV was one of the scariest from Jim, corpses running everywhere, that was when he decided to survive by any means necessary he did not want to be just some nameless corpse. That was the first time that he gave himself freely and consensually.
blotches cover my suit from ankle to shoulders. grey blotches, dark grey blotches, and even blue blotches. gross blotches.
blotches are blotchy. Sometimes you get blotches of ink and you have to look at them and then people analyse you and say that you are crazy. That is almost certainly what this test is about as well. ANyway, back to blotches, they are usually irregular in shape and are generally deemed to be a bad thing. Sometimes they are stains or bad skin.
The teardrops soak my words
I cannot send the letter now
And if I did you couldn’t read it
I’m sorry for the lost opportunity
I’m sorry.
Blotches are super annoying. On your face, on your body, on your clothes. They really have no point in existing except to frustrate people. What the hell blotches. Leave us alone.
Splotches of red under the skin form when he doesn’t sleep. The veins and arteries all purple and blue, rising, coursing and feeding the splashes of red that pool in the cracks of his exhausted features. This is what it feels like to be old, and he knows this though he’s young.
Blotches are red and not attractive. If on the face, they create a unnatural look that will not be pleasant. Red blotches on the face can be fixed by makeup. However, blotching is not a bad thing, sometimes its good to have a natural look.
Blotches are a common and annoying result of a broken pen. Blotches occur in several different forms, from the small, “ahh damn, my pens leaked,” to a force 10 “Holy F*ck, was I carrying an oil tacnker in my back pocket?”
blotches on the skin from over-tanning
blotches on the sun for the gases and makeup of the solar system
blotches on your jeans when you spill the bleach
big little small blotches
blotches of ink. look pretty on the paper. paper is made of wood. blotches and wood…see a connection but not sure if it is that clear. i like blotches though. have a distinct artistic quality to them. you see what you want to see in them. the depth on an ink blotch speaks volumes of truths.
I have absolutely no idea what blotches means. Is it similar to blisters or something like that? I guess the word just has that sort of ring to it. Oh well… This is sort of becoming a failure. Sixty seconds to write about a word and I don’t even know what the word means. And that calls himself a fluent English speaker…
Blotches. Like thick, oozing blotches on my face when I ate that peanut. Red and itchy, big and lumpy. A sign of my weak body.Those blotches.
The blotches that most quickly come to mind are in blotches. Little marks that tell a trained professional about who you are deep inside. Do you see a butterfly? An Axe? are you a killer or a humanitarian
The blotches know.
Blotches. Spots. A Rorshach test. They have no inherent meaning. We put in our experiences and draw the meaning for ourselves. To interpret is to be human.
He sauntered up to me with a knowing little smirk tilting one corner of his sumptuous lips upward, a hint of a dimple showing. Leaning down, he lightly pressed those lips to my ear and whispered, “You’re blushing” as the blood flying through my pounding heart appeared in little patterned splotches, common for the Anglo-Saxon skin type.
I stared from my hiding spot around the corner, three lockers down, and watched my crush whisper in his girlfriend’s ear.
i see blotches on my eyes, which so often disguise, the simple clear escape, i’m seeking in your lies. And when i can erase, this smudge i call a phase, i look behind my stare, and find you are not there.
There are so many blotches of blotch on my face. Blotches here, blotches there. The only thing I can do about it is blotch it with a blotch pad. I hope writing about it helps me get rid of them!
The blotches of ink stared blankly back at him, their faces turning nightmarish in his brain. Suddenly a flood of memories overcame him, bearing down like a cold, crushing wave.
Blotches, stained the carpet. Dry ink as dark as tears. I stared down at this mess and felt apprehension. We were leaving our home, full of our mistakes; our mishaps, our memories, to strangers. Strangers who would probably, rip, tear, shred and pull out part of our patchworked stories
blotches tend to disgust other people, women in particular. why did nature decided to castrate me with this horrible thing, i’ll never know.
Damn these blotches. I can’t see what’s she written. Is it a yes there? or a no? Does she want me or does she not? Did she cry while writing this, or does she have a leaky roof?
The blotches on her skin made her cheeks red. The chill wind whipped her face and made the skin tingle. These blotches would stay until she ran her hands along them, making the blood circulate. When she opened the door and got inside she took off her gloves and hat and vigorously rubbed rubbed her hands along her cheeks, warming them until the blotches dissappeared.
“Oh god, what IS that?”
“I’m just allergic, okay?”
“But… those blotches…”
“I know, they’re kinda gross.”
“Gross, NOTHING. Those blotches are goddamn necrosis, man.”
“Oh, yeah.” I shrug.
“‘Oh, yeah?'”
“Yeah, I’m a zombie.”
“Oh, okay.”
of paint on the ceiling remind me of that movie i saw with the dead man on the roof. they went up the stairs and they found a zombie. and then the zombie ate them and they lived happily ever after
There were small blotches on his skin, obvious signs of Stage II, but she wrapped her arms around his neck anyway.
“You’ll catch the virus.” He muttered trying to pull away. “ I love you too much to give you the disease. Wait till they’ve a cure.”
“I don’t want to wait.”
The man sauntered down the street, sulking, trying to patch up his weary heart. Growing weaker by the momment, he lay down in the patches of snow. Blotches formed around his face as his scares taunted the present.