cpark389

cpark389

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Threatening glare across the room. She looks like a silly cat meme with the bolded "SOON" in all caps looms over her head. But I don't give a flying fuck, I'm done with my work so I'm going to keep reading "Gone Girl" on the company dollar.

punched in the face. that's what he GOT. PUNCHED IN THE FACE. I could hardly believe my own strength when I watched his face fly sideways. When my hand fell back down to my side the blood quickly started flush out the pain I had caused myself.

The rest is still unwritten. Thank you, Natasha Bettingfield (sp? whatever). Unwritten basically describes any writing right now because I'm watching a Grey's Anatomy marathon.

Wistful. The sound of it makes me angry. Wist-ful. The "wist" part... it just sounds so... whispy and faint. I think the word "wistful" is one of the most frustrating words. 'Wist" is flimsy and not 'ful'.... but to be 'ful' of the 'wist' can be incredibly frustrating... i guess it makes sense. what the hell am I even writing about now.

Fuck wistful. Sick of my heart leaping out of my chest and trying to run ahead of me. It's skipping everything in my life happening right now. There is such a thing as too much wishing. Too much wishing can distract from now. Sometimes you have to tell your heart to slow a beat or two so you can take a second to see where you are and love that, too. I'm sick of wistful. That stupid word makes me think of the proper ladies wearing obnoxiously heavy summer dresses while fanning themselves in the sun and sipping cold lemonade sighing, "my oh my..." or whatever proper ladies who do these things actually say. Fuck wistful.

vines

Vines, as she calls them. They're her favorite candy. Her tiny hands playfully grab at the tub of licorice and when I hand her one piece she chews the sweet candy with a smile on her face.

Muddy hands pressed themselves into the clean, white wall and dragged downwards. The pressure leaving distinctive fingerpaths and an angry mark on the once seemingly perfect and hated void.

He lies back in his directors chair, the old wood creaks as he sinks into his comfort zone and the canvas backing. Almost everyone else has gone home but he just wanted some time to stare at the set as a whole.

Withered. This was the word that came to mind when she looked in the mirror for the first time in two years. The last time she saw her own reflection she cried and broke every reflective glass at her eye level. Now at a second glance she notices delicate skin around her own fiery blue eyes, the blood beneath her skin pumping fresh color to her cheeks and her lips smiled like thirty years never passed.

"Withered and brittle." She used these words to describe the trees around here in the dead of winter. There wasn't any snow but if you looked outside from your living room window, warmed by a fire, you can see how cold it is by looking at the trees.

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you wrote about unwritten
“The rest is still unwritten. Thank you, Natasha Bettingfield (sp? whatever). Unwritten basically describes any writing right now because I'm watching a Grey's Anatomy marathon.”

the words you reach for

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