phreellgien
I watched late night sitcoms with you. Holding your hand. My head on your shoulder. The warmth of your cheek sending blushes throughout my body. Your hair tickling my neck. The whispers and quiet, shaking laughter we both shared. I could spend the rest of my life like this, I thought. This is what I want. This is all I want. I love you.
I think I would like books better if you read them to me.
Sixteen years, and you smiled. All the blood in my veins rushed, coursed, and sang through me, pounding liquid iron through every crevice in my body as I stood, solidified, unable to move. Hi, you said. Hi, I said. And you ran towards me, hair flying. I hadn't realized how much I missed you until you kissed me.
The minute hand walked around the clock 23 times. The colonel, ever the orator, was still at it, screaming with pounding fists and emphasized words.
Although I do enjoy speeches, the raised voice was all it took to drive interest away from home. And yet, the other soldiers glanced up at him with winning, admirable eyes. Tears, too. Lots of tears. Even with his screams and table pounding, the soldiers adored him. I didn't, however. This, I suppose, might be one of the few reasons why I feel so out of place here, the place of conformity. I was the dust bunny on the squeaky clean floor.
The colonel gave another scream and a large clap, as if to emphasize a point. I yawned. This could go on for hours.
But suddenly, there was silence. After a few moments, crickets chirping, I finally tore myself away from the fascinating clock, only to meet the hard glare of the colonel.
"LISTEN," he said as I clenched my fists. "And if you can't, speak UP. How else will the world know YOU exist?" End of speech.
With a standing ovation.
The colonel whipped his head away, letting his piercing stare fade. I considered, a moment. Then I let go of my fists and joined in on the clapping of conformity.
I wanted to live six feet under.
This was the closest I could get.
I wanted you to hurt me, badly. That desire was a craving in my gut that would not go away until you lashed out at me, whip of a temper rising. Selfishly, I hurt you so you could hurt me. But I knew you've always been gentle. You were also kind, wonderful, and splendidly, beautifully perfect. And you deserved more than just someone who would hold you back, sidetrack you. And I, I only deserved nothing more than the most pleasurable of punishments: your love.
Porcelain. Breaking. Falling. Shattering. Mirrors. Sunflowers. Daisies. Crayons. Smiles. Euphoria. Laughter. Kisses. Commitment. Divorce. Breakup. Corners of the room. Disappearing. Hammers. Tears. Knives. Blood. Drowning. Pills. Blank. Blank. Blank. Roses. Hugs. Coffee. Inspiration. Love. Dreams. Blank. Blank. Death.
I am constantly sidetracked into happiness. But of course, I always 'centertrack' back into depression.
I only believed in everything you ever told me. They were beautiful lies, splendid stories. Your words was the only world I could hold onto, a world where I wasn't cursed with cancer.
I only believed in everything you ever told me. It was the only world I could hold onto, a world where I wasn't cursed with cancer.
When I tried to discover the world, the sky collapsed upon me. And when I looked up, all I saw was a mirror.
See, the world was trying to tell me something. I couldn't learn about another entity when I had no idea who I was myself. I had to learn to love myself first before I could befriend another universe.
But you see, this was something the world didn't know. The mirror was cracked. All I could see, of course, was a broken face.
writing since 2011 · 11 entries · 8 days shown up
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