Broken beer bottles could write my life story. Daddy was never quite sober enough to clean up the shards, or rather to not break them to begin with. Seventeen and bouncing off the walls to break free, I was too cautious to be crazy and never quite pretty enough to be called beautiful.
I hid the bruises as best I could. Alcohol abuse often carries with it the physical variety. Punches thrown after downing three cold ones are promptly forgiven with the morning apology.
I hate the memories. I just want everything about you erased from me. I’ve got journals full of love letters, poems, stories. Things you inspired me to do that I can’t bear anymore. Let’s skip the pleasantries. Cut the bullshit and just look at me. Look at what you’ve done to me. Bright eyed with an ink pen, now taking risks scares me shitless. My words are crippled. Do you remember? Remember that day you crushed any confidence I had in myself as I writer? I let you read, wanted you so badly to fall in love with me. Do you have any idea how surprised I was? Looking at my computer screen, seeing what you’d done. You’d micromanaged me. Stolen my creativity. Told me my plot was weak, suggested turning it upside down; maybe then I’d be worth the happy ending. Killed my energy. It’s not a happy memory. God, that’s how I want to remember you. At your worst. Though no matter how hard I try I can’t seem to simplify. You were both for me. Villain and masterpiece. “You’re beautiful. Remember that.” I can’t deny the butterflies. You knew how to get to me. I doubt it was meant to be vindictive, but you couldn’t imagine the sting. You’re supposed to be the enemy. Why do you insist on being friends with me?
It’s really surreal, watching you squeel. I trip over my feet just to get some relief. You followed me home, broken in the light of tomorrow as paycheck means payment and dawn rises. A rift divides the two of us, broken hearted promises aside. I miss the rain, the way it kissed my skin, the taste on my lips as fresh water mixes with salty tears.
Everyone relates. Pain rips things apart, but in the midst of mistakes and hurt people build things. Pain holds miracles together. Without suffering, no one can know hope. As I’m writing this blog, someone is hurting. Somewhere. It’s just how the world works. All I can hope for is that that person in pain has someone to go to for help, somewhere to turn to when they think the whole world is against them. Hearts break, but broken they live on. In the moment when you doubt all that you know, where you think things would be better if you just gave up, think of the people your life has touched. Not everyone gets a happy ending. Not everything works out for the better, and bleeding hearts bleed.
There was a searing pain in my left wrist. I could feel a break in my right leg and I was sure my ankle was sprained. I kept running. It was a wobbly kind of run, broken by stumbles and falls. Stray hairs fell into my eyes and I blew them away. Whatever was following me was catching up. Hauling ass, I tried to keep the majority of my weight to the left of my body. Quickly pivoting, I found a corridor and pulled myself inside. There was a metal make-shift door and I quietly slid it into place. Footsteps. Scratches. I heard a fierce growl and the metal door was gone. Shielding my face, I felt the tearing of skin and the hot, sticky wetness on my arms. There was a sharp pain in my abdomen. Twist. I could feel a scream clawing up my throat, it rippled out, wild. White spots appeared in my field of vision, and I felt a tear across my throat. Deep. My breath shortening. Blackness was all I felt, all I could see.
She has a smile that makes you want to write poetry. The fiddling and fidgeting of the room fills your mind, the tap-tap-tap of fingers, impatient feet bouncing on the carpet. Chaos, organized. You’re here to enlist. You can’t afford college, and the economy is down. Military enrollment solves all problems. You haven;t told her yet, afraid of her reaction. She’ll be afraid for your life, and that breaks your heart.
You don’t know if your parents will be proud of upset. Drum, drum. Your heart is beating in your ears. Pounding. Throbbing. Aching. Soon heart beats will turn into gunshots, and bullets will replace rain. Your name is called. You approach the mousey secretary, she sighs. Her eyes are sad. Sending people off to war must be hard. She smiles, but it doesn’t touch her eyes. They’re green. Dark. They remind you of the forest. You wonder if her eyes ever rain.
I hate the memories. I just want everything about you erased from me. I’ve got journals full of love letters, poems, stories. Things you inspired me to do that I can’t bear anymore. Let’s skip the pleasantries. Cut the bullshit and just look at me. Look at what you’ve done to me. Bright eyed with an ink pen, now taking risks scares me shitless. My words are crippled. Do you remember? Remember that day you crushed any confidence I had in myself as I writer? I let you read, wanted you so badly to fall in love with me. Do you have any idea how surprised I was? Looking at my computer screen, seeing what you’d done. You’d micromanaged me. Stolen my creativity. Told me my plot was weak, suggested turning it upside down; maybe then I’d be worth the happy ending. Killed my energy. It’s not a happy memory. God, that’s how I want to remember you. At your worst. Though no matter how hard I try I can’t seem to simplify. You were both for me. Villain and masterpiece. “You’re beautiful. Remember that.” I can’t deny the butterflies. You knew how to get to me. I doubt it was meant to be vindictive, but you couldn’t imagine the sting. You’re supposed to be the enemy. Why do you insist on being friends with me?
I want your hands on me, hot and strong. Kisses broken by heavy breathing; God, I want you. My stomach overflowing with butterflies, you whisper my name across my lips. It comes out like a prayer. My eyelids flutter and you’ve got your hands up the back of my shirt, pressing my body against yours. You feel the smile on my lips and I press my hands to your chest, sneaking up your shirt. I want your clothes off. I want to feel your sheets, cold on my back as your warm body grinds against me.
