About this morning

I’ve been reading a lot. It is what I do to distract myself from the urgency of the mundane tasks that overpower my weakly motivated days. I read to forget reality. I immersed myself in the book after I saw her standing over the kitchen sink and scrubbing her nails viciously.

The red velvet skirt is horrid. She said that it was a steal at the second-hand store; I agree in essence – it is criminal. There is very little that can make it glamorise. It clashes with her blue-tinted skin, the hollow of her eyes and the prominent bones in her neck. The skirt did nothing for her; in fact, it was an injustice. We were going to the beach!

The reckless wind didn’t play with her skirt – it wasn’t fun like that. I wasn’t feeling too playful myself. Sand was whipped across my face exfoliating the skin and grains stumbled awkwardly into my ears. It was torture.

At home, sand nestled in her red velvet skirt hastily fell to the carpets – freshly cleaned. She caught my eye and shrugged her shoulders. I walked to the reading room in aggressive silence. Supper slipped outside our reach.

She stood at the door, her head tilted to exude certain innocence but we both knew better. The room shrunk the longer she stood and I feigned scholaristic concentration. But we both knew better.

My eyes lifted off the page, my facial expressions minimal and my composition carefully orchestrated. The book remained in place as our eyes met. The fury of the unspoken filled the room and compromised any form of truce. She waited with the deadly patience of an Amazonian jaguar.

My face flushed and the words gathered and jumbled in my throat. Cotton found every crevice in my mouth and absorbed every drop of liquid in my being.

The words were like raging bulls fighting to be let out. My mind kept pace. I expected chaos yet in a barely audible whisper, I said: “The blood under your nails…”

—

For the Scriptic.org prompt exchange this week, Grace O’Malley at http://www.librivore.com gave me this prompt: Blood under the fingernails and sand on a red velvet skirt.

I gave k~ at http://bloggitwrite.blogspot.com/ this prompt: You’re sitting alone facing the beach on a Sunday morning, struggling to get the words on paper. Just as you admit defeat, you write the name of a past lover, and the first line of a letter: “Only love can break your heart.” Complete the letter.

I met you for a reason

The day I met you was one of my happiest. I was with my girlfriends: drinking too much, laughing too loud and just being happy. We all also happened to look fabulous.

I met you for a reason. I don’t want that reason to be you breaking my heart once and me allowing you to do it twice after that. I want that reason to be that despite being hurt we found our way back to each other. We are not at that point. This story is not over, I won’t accept that.

You’ll be the father of my children. Yes, we’ll have more than one. Yes, I know I’ve claimed that I don’t want children: I will have yours. It seems natural – also we will have to adopt at least one child.

So my darling, it is time to take a risk because true love doesn’t just happen, you need to take a chance. You need to make a choice and I am asking you to choose me. Each day I will you to be braver than you are now.

We have never said it before. We have enacted it but the truth behind each action we’ve every taken is love. And I love you so much. I want the absolute best for you and I know that right now, I am not it and she is. But one day, one day it will be me.

Missing you is painful but wondering if you’ll ever return is killing me.

Untamed thoughts

The past of a timeless gem. Beneath my smile and playful exterior lurks darkness undiscovered. Troubled waters and turbulent seas. Volcanic emotions and molten hot words. 

My heart is disturbed, disrupted, destructive. If we design our own destiny, what am I playing at?

 

What is the point of being strong, if it blocks emotion? I sometimes think that I’d rather be weak and loved than strong and alone – but I know this to be a lie. Can’t I just be strong in love?

17h14

The tick tock of that fucking clock drives me up the wall. Tick tock. Moan. Drone. Tumble. Fumble. Slowly going batshit crazy. You’d think by now I’d have it figured out.

I check the digital: 17:14. Why does time move so, so slow when your mind is challenging the speed of light?

He asks suddenly: ”Do you like photography?”

I must look confused.He gestures to the camera in my hand. I know that it is there but for some reason, I look down. The black is faded and the metal heavily scratched. I bought it on a whim. I’ve always wanted to capture moments and the 60s Minolta seemed like a sound choice. It was a SLR with changeable lenses. It was time for a new perspective on life and what better way to see things than through a different pair of eyes. Eyes that have seen many scenes and compared moments I’ll never know of.

The problem with cameras are that they can’t capture certain things such as:  the way pouring rain makes clear thought murky or how when you get too close to the future it blurs. It can’t capture the moment he left me behind in cold blood or the moment I became forgotten or when I was dismissed. It can’t capture my turmoil when I felt unequal to thirteen cents.

It may be able to capture his blue eyes and dark hair, her pale skin and red hair. Or was it olive skin and green eyes. Yet, it won’t capture his faux French accent or erratic Spanish moves. It could capture his broody soul, his sullen moods, his Gothic dress code. But it would all be images that captures half the truth. It won’t embody the back story or the emotional context. How could it?

The night before I was faced with a blackened night, shattered shooting stars and the weeping whispers of my broken heart. Tragic shadows roamed the dunes of my mind.

I look at the man oddly waiting for my response: I tell him that it has been rekindled: my passion and interest in photography. I can’t say that it ever disappeared; it just lurked in the background omnisciently while I tried other things. Things I should have been started to begin with. Things that were more sensible and practical and safe. He pierces my armour and rattles my core. His look disarms me; it is gentle yet firm, he makes it clear that he knows that I am lying. I turn my head to face the wind willing it to alter my facial expression.

The streaks of wetness surprise me. I didn’t realise that I was this weak, this vulnerable, this fragile. I check the digital to distract my mind: 17h19…

Strong

A friend told me that she envies me and can’t understand how I am strong all the time. I laughed because I knew that that wasn’t true.

I wanted to tell her that I cried when I was alone. I cried about not being loved, not being protected and having to make it on my own. I cried buckets and tanks of pain that seared my heart and burned my eyes. Pain that shot straight through my soul and fractured it. The cracks are hairline thin but unmistakable.

I wanted to tell her the constant fights I had with myself and the cruel, lambasting internal dialogues that peppered my daily existence. The talks of not being good enough and the fear of forever being alone. I wanted to speak of the nights I spent alone with my own thoughts that broke my heart beyond repair.

I wanted to tell her about the silence. The thoughts in my head that refuse to be silenced. The silence that erupted with a million murmurs about mistakes made and decisions poor. The silence that throbbed when I put my head underwater to drown the tears that streaked my face. The silence of evenings and mornings spent in solitude. The silence of having made the choices that led to now. The silence of knowing and owning each and every decision up to now. The silence is accusatory and brutal.

I wanted to say being strong means being vulnerable and daring to believe. I wanted to say that being strong comes at a cost, every single moment of the day. I wanted to say that being strong, is the hardest thing in the world and I want to unmake my decision time and time and time again. The state of ‘alone’ echoes in each chamber of my soul. I’ve chosen a route that I must travel alone. I need to learn to be gentler on myself and stop tearing myself apart.

Yet, all I said was “you don’t know a thing about my pain”.

But I suppose if you open yourself up to life and allow your self to be vulnerable then you’re really strong. So maybe she is right.

Jagged edge

There seemed to be no other way up. The edge broke her skin and hit 10 000 nerves, or so it felt. The pain emptied her lungs of air and she did everything not to let go. The voices were talking but she could make no sense of it all; she only knew that she had to keep going. The problem is that she had nowhere to go. The blood was draining from her hand. Her pulse was slowing down as the sweat dried on her face. Her body weight, doubled then trebled and with each agonising second, her weight increased exponentially. Three limbs gently swayed. She hung onto her life with every thread of her soul. Then every voice and thought went silent. Her head was being cleared of blood. Her eyes slowly went back into her head. She willed her fingers to grip the only jagged rock available when an arm appeared… It was him. She sensed his presence before she saw his voice or heard his voice. His scent filled her lungs and her head whipped forward to look at him and his extended hand. He was staring at her with those eyes and silently daring her. He was compelling. She rebelled, finger by finger, dropping to her death.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

For the Scriptic.org prompt exchange this week, Lance at http://lancemyblogcanbeatupyourblog.wordpress.com gave me this prompt: Her fingers gripped the only jagged rock available when an arm appeared….

I gave November Rain (k~) at http://bloggitwrite.blogspot.com this prompt: One thing to give up to be happy: hope. Oh, and there is another: faith.

Spin-the-bottle

You’re sitting in a circle and spilling your drink on the carpet. You giggle at jokes that have no punch line. The music is less than wonderful but wonderfully festival. The buzz of liquor silences your inner voice. It is all fun and games. A couple is making out on the couch; their heavy breathing audible despite the heavy bass and insistent buzz.

Everyone speaks at volumes louder than needed. Everyone is looking around for their someone special. Girls whisper while throwing knowing glances at certain boys in the room. Everyone hopes that they know where this night is going. The kissing couple start unbuttoning buttons and unzipping zips: the sound heightens the sexual tension more than all the liquor combined. A brutish man yells for everyone to join the circle; the time has come for the inevitable “spin-the-bottle” game.

The group cheers, this is going to be fun. Some can already taste the mix of alcohol and sex on their desire’s tongue. The newcomers to the circle carefully select their position in relation to the one who they want. Cups and glasses are filled then the games begin. The “Master of Ceremonies” takes it upon himself to begin proceedings. As the bottle, spins everyone remembers that they forgot to set some rules but the deed is done and the only rule for the first round is that you must kiss who the bottle points to – male or female. The energy shifts and silence replaces nervous giggles.

The bottle swings then stops in front of the lovely redhead. The MC sucks in his breath to stop a sigh of relief. He was not caught out. He bends toward Lady Red, kissing her softly before unabashedly putting his entire weight on her. She pushes him off and away pursing her lips before winking. It is all fun and games.

The second in line, spins the bottle so hard that his drink leaves a wet patch on his jeans. The busty one is his for the kissing yet he gets too rough and she ends it fast. The sniggers from the group are faint; someone can still be caught out. The first lady to spin does so gently looking sultry to say the least. As the bottle slows, a pained grunt causes the group to all face the kissing couple. No clothes no more. Her bare back reddened in places he’s groped. The look becomes a collective stare as she takes out a condom – everyone wishes that this is where the night is going. No one notices that someone changes the position of the bottle.

Gaining self-consciousness, the group return to the game at hand while paying the action on the couch the closest attention. The first lady smiles at the (manipulated) bottle’s instruction. The kiss lingers and doesn’t end yet is merely gently paused. The exchange is clear that this will be continued.  You’re up next. Your chest puffs out and you steal a peek outside the closet. Only one rule applies in this round and softly, you pray then exhale before spinning the bottle. The spin seems to be in your favour until the condom breaks.

x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x

For the Scriptic.org prompt exchange this week, Laura at http://ratherthecouch.wordpress.com/ gave me this prompt: It’s all fun and games until someone realizes it’s not fun at all.

I gave Barb Black at http://blackinkpad.blogspot.comthis prompt: As I stood holding my hand over the bleeding wound, his heart beat kept steady. I did everything to avoid eye contact but I knew that he felt that I loved him dearly and I stopped pretending that I didn’t love him beyond words.