oddball
Determined. Undermined. Layman's terms. I am free writing. I have wanted to do something like this for weeks, when my brain is in this sort of state. I fly out of my own state and go to a world where I can do something better. I am determined to find the state where I can eat purple sugar-paper flowers and candy skulls daily and snack on vegan treats while a lover and I touch fingertips. I used to call it a Francesca Lia Block world, from her books. I would still love to live in one.
Maybe the next time somebody asks me if I'm okay, I'll actually say "No".
Instead of listening to the wine bottles clink against each other in the backseat of the car while my dad drives home from the grocery store. He tells me "I don't feel like we're father and daughter most of the time."
My mental trunk of old dress up clothes, memories, and pent-up tears is just about to burst.
I wake up with a criss-crossing pattern on my face from the rough pillow I passed out on. The music is pounding downstairs. I rub my cheek, willing the lines to go away, worrying about catching up, there's no way I'll get drunk enough.
I reach over to grab the last of my watered-down blue raspberry vodka, sipping at the lukewarm fire as I go to the bathroom mirror and attempt to be presentable.
My loss is different and will affect me forever. Every loss is hard, but worse when it's unnatural.
You drove over our heads on the highway, we probably heard the motor of your pickup. You continued, past the lights of your own home, and parked on the tracks with your first class ticket to somewhere you couldn't return from.
I flirt with the night. He teases me with promises of sleep and sweet dreams and I smile coyly and roll away with shy laughs. I want what he promises.
But unfortunately, I'm having a war right now, and the enemy is winning. So sleep and the night will pay up later.
I'm lost. The synapses and turns of my brain are bending, I didn't keep my hand on the wall. Things still hurt, I still smile.
Whenever I reply to something, I feel morbid, speaking of banging on walls and struggling not to get lost. Why not write about getting out of the maze instead of getting stuck in it?
Need to make my own glass half full again.
Today I got asked which room in my house I would most like to put a fireplace. I answered my living room. I feel like any other place would be a little silly.
A nice, cozy fire to cuddle up on the loveseat in front of.
The end.
The thunder echoes the beating of my heart. Slow, steady. The rain on the roof mimics the tears on my cheeks. Tired, exhausted... let me sleep.
It's 6am every morning and I'm still awake every morning, listening to the weather through the paper-thin walls and wondering when I'll find home again.
Two people view things in very different ways.
First impressions do matter.
This is another day where it's hard to really write about something. View view view view.
Room with a view. Wow, look at that view. Your tits are quite the view. Yikes, what a view. Viewer discretion advised. Don't view without parent permission.
Platinum.
My dad's wedding ring was platinum.
I never really saw the difference between the more expensive platinum and it's other cold, silver counterparts.
But it was a nice ring. A simple, thick band to go with his strong fingers.
I got to walk my dad down the aisle. The church was open and breezy.
I want my marriage to go even half as beautifully.
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