trumancapote
I try too hard to uphold these morals that I feel are necessary in a meaningful existence. But I'm too much of an idealist. I don't see the fact that I'm slowly becoming a hypocrite; that my morals are pushing people away from me, people whom I once treasured and thought were worth my time.
His heartbeat, hammering against my stone-cold back, with masculine arms curled up around my little, undefined body, his Dasein embracing every fragment of my being.
I quickly rise to the surface of the water for a breath. Inhale and exhale, inhale, inhale, inhale. The sea-wet air clouds my lungs like seaweed clenched onto the side of a rigid rock. I sweep my damp hair back from my face, in an attempt to see the horizon...but a cadence of waves crash onto me, once again, pushing me down below the water's surface.
Best friend, lover, teacher. You were my seeing eye, the one who saw my flaws and taught me better. You taught me that I was worth it, that I was worth every ounce of your effort; and that made me momentarily happy.
From the corner of my eyes, I could see them, sitting side by side, fingers entwinned, bodies embraced. I remembered what it once felt like to be loved, to be treasured. But it was always my fault for screwing things up. It was always my paranoia of becoming attached; the abstract idea of becoming someone's Special Something and eventually letting them down.
Her frail fingers slid from black to white. Her attempts to remember the piece brought tears to her eyes. None of the keys seemed right. She was slowly forgetting all that had once been dear to her. Her husband's tender laugh, their home address, the song her father taught her to play when she was a young child; those memories, captured by the essence of her deep grey eyes, were melting away like winter snow.
Light, filtering in through the blinds, dotting my canvas as I painted. His dark complexion, penetrating across the rough disturbance of the blank surface, lit my brush as it flowed from structure to structure;
writing since 2011 · 7 entries · 7 days shown up
each square is a day—lit means Emma showed up.
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the words Emma reaches for
inhalesurfaceeyestaughtbecomingworthstructurefingersslowlytreasuredpushingmoralslightfilteringblindsdotting