bhigginb
I am on the brink. I am so close to succeeding, but so close to veering off course. I am motivated, yet I am procrastinating. I waste my time submerging myself into pointless pleasures, losing focus. At this rate, I will never approach success. I've come across mediocrity, but am not content. I want more; I want kisses in the rain, pay raises, straight a's, an acceptance letter to graduate school, a work of mine published in a scholarly journal. Yet I lay in bed with you, wasting my days away with kisses, tangled sheets, and plans to be with you. You are my plan; this is not what I intended.
Tight about your neck as you walk in from the snow, or loose around your collarbones as you glide amongst the leaves in the fall. Matching them accordingly to your clothing or your mood. Completing an outfit. Hiding hickeys. Dangling from the tree after you take them off your breasts right before you dive into the creek for a swim in the summer.
I looked up into the sky, watching the smoke dispel from my mouth, and I wondered. Is this really it? Am I wasting my time? Does he invest as much as I do? Does he think about me as often as I think about him? Is my love real? My thoughts bounce around in my brain; my family, school, future, boyfriend, friends, and so forth. I sit here, then realize hours have passed, and my mind is still churning like a grandfather clock, back and forth, back and forth. It never ends.
I almost had you. I almost let you in. I almost let go. I almost took off my pants. I almost took a sip. I almost smoked it. I almost jumped in. I almost rode it. I almost took it for a spin. I almost watched it. I almost loved you. I almost paid for it. I almost read it. I almost heard it. I almost lived.
She pulls your hair back into a tight ponytail; you're shivering underneath the frail black sheet to keep the hair from gathering all over your body. She grabs the scissors, and begins to chop. Your hair is gone, and as she styles the rest, you stare at the ponytail on the table in front of you. Once your hair is perfectly cropped, the old hair lies on the ground, waiting to be swept away. Years of growth has vanished.
Hit the key, push the button, change the channel, sit in the tower, use imperative statements. Use your power to the upmost ability, conquer those around you, control those you feel are inferior, and you will be the next Caesar. Someone will stab you in the back, and you will die. So, for heavens sake, let him hold the remote for a change.
The sweat is pouring down her body, pooling between her breasts, sliding down her freshly shaved legs as they move back and forth. Her underarms are soaked, and she pants heavily, maintaining a steady breath. She looks forward, seeing the finish line yards in front of her. This is the final lap, and she has left everyone else in the dust. This is what victory feels like, she thinks.
He gets on the plane, and looks over the stretch of cracked pavement to the glass. The people are lined up, bunched together, similar to concerts he went to when he was younger. Eager to be as close as possible to those that will play a set for an hour and leave. That seems so long ago. He gets onto the plane, and it flies away. He'll be back from basic in a year.
Tricks. Mind games. Sunglasses for a dollar at H&M. Clothes that seem to be fitting of your personality, but fray at the edges upon washing once or twice. Shoes at Charlotte Russe. Cutting corners. Not living to your fullest; ignoring expectations of others just to live in mediocrity.
Dancing, bottle in hand, your head angling upward to avoid the ceiling fan. The vodka drips down your chin onto your bare chest as you move your hips back and forth. The people are screaming, cheering you on as the music moves through you. Nothing else seems to matter. There is no future, just this, living now. This is college.