riahsaberhagen
Painting a moment is always a bit tedious, especially when you're constantly trying to paint a picture you have never seen. Imagination? Please, they say you never dream faces you've never seen. Am I making sense? Either way, it's still a mystery to me.
The bloodstains stained the white sheets more than they anticipated... the sweat still caked on their guilty skins were reminders of the previous night where wolves cried and black cats roamed the streets. They held no blank stares, just free speech. Yet, there was not much left to say. Her virginity was lost, lost in a sea of freedom and dance. Dancing in the sheets, dancing on his skin, dancing alongside the curves of her body. He came in, ripped apart, and took the kill- she was captured, but nowhere to be found.
I wanted all of her: her lush brown hair, her perfect smile, her hands holding me tight at night... her. I didn't know how to tell her, she was the ghost in the corner. In reality, she was like that breath of fresh air- relieving and brief. She was the song-bird in the cage, the sunshine after a storm, the sweetness in honey. I just wanted all of her... I don't know how, I don't know why, I just know I wanted to capture her heart.
I wish I could write, really. Like, if it were possibly to create a work of fiction that could take you and I on a journey, I'd do it in a New York minute. But, I just can't; the blood has already bled out long ago, and I am left here begging for some conviction. Some comfort. Some reminder I'm not dead. How does this relate to a staple? Nothing, I guess. Besides the thought lingering in my head that staples are just some tiny metallic teeth clenching the thoughtless scribbles of each individual page.
She staples those papers every morning, the click click click sound floating in her head. She staples those papers each and every morning, the memories of the past lying dead. She was not crazy, not in the slightest bit. I think I could had learned to love her, if I knew she was good at stapling shut the wicked things in her head.
I'm the girl you read about crying in class over a guy. I didn't mean to though, so give me some credit.
Calmly as if it were a walk on the beach, I told my eyes not to close. I knew as soon as I closed them, the tears would begin flowing.
Calmly as if it were a night looking at stars, I told myself not to think. I knew as soon as it hit me, it would hit me hard and good.
Calmly as if it were summer again, I told myself this was a part of living. I knew as soon as I closed my eyes and let my mind wander, I would be a living in the mold of the teenage broken hearted bitter bitch.
I'm the girl they use as a demonstration; don' fall in love at seventeen.