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She was the kind of person who made you feel special. She made you feel as if you could be someone new, someone better. She made you think you were the most important person in the world to her. And you were. Everyone was.
She filled you up and up and up until you spilled over and over. She made you shine until that one inevitable day she disappeared. Left you still spilling over because you forgot how to stop, spilling until you were empty inside. Emptier than before. Left you hating her and wanting her and alone.
My internet has been out for days. I feel like I have utterly failed this site. I'm sorry. Please don't hold it against me, 100 Words. I swear I'll make it up to you. I'll even put a hold on my Harry Potter marathon in order to make up the last five days (I won't. You should know better than to trust me. I love books more than you).
I've had the strangest dreams. They feel important, but I can't remember them once I wake up. On the bright side, I've had less nightmares. I hope that means I'm better.
The light coming through the bedroom window makes pale horizontal lines on the wall. It reminds me of old detective movies--chin tucked into a trench coat collar, smoke swirling in the air, a streak of light across the suspect's eyes.
Does that make him the suspect? Sitting there with his eyes half closed, he looks awfully suspicious. I wish I could open up his head, pick out all of his memories and lay them on the desk as evidence.
"Yes, it's all coming clear now. I see what you did there. Gonna have to take you in, sonny."
One evening, as the sky began to grow dark, I reached out my hand as far as it could go and grabbed the edge of the sun. It fought me, of course--it wanted to sleep like any creature would--but I held on. I pulled and pulled and pulled and finally dragged daylight back.
They told me I had done a bad thing. They said I committed a sin that day. Hell, maybe I did. But one thing I know for sure is that I will never have to fear the dark again. And isn't that worth it?
That sweet, spicy smell of juniper makes me sneeze. I like it anyway. It reminds me of some memory I never actually had. It makes me nostalgic for a land I never visited, a house I've never seen, a bed I've never slept in. It reminds me of the lover I never loved.
Who knew I would fall for the killing instincts of the desert? Who knew my love would be swayed by the dry and dusty, not the green and fertile I had always admired? Little desert flower, so delicate and vulnerable.
Little desert flower, covered in such thorns.
Spread-eagle on the floor, my ear pressed to the carpet, I pretend I can hear the thoughts of my downstairs neighbor floating up from her head. I caught a glimpse of her living room once--she left her curtains open one night, and as I walked by I spotted a zebra print couch and lion paintings on the wall. Everything was neat and tidy and not at all lonely.
I think I would like her.
We've never talked. I've never talked to any neighbors. But she's my favorite. Maybe she'd like me too?
I am a bit creepy sometimes.
Do you remember what it felt like to be brave?
Do you remember flinging your arms out in the parking lot of Wal-mart, screaming "Fuck it!" and chasing each other around the cars and laughing until our ribs felt like they were cracking to pieces?
Do you remember what it was like to watch your life spiral out of control and dig deeper, deeper, ever deeper, into the dangerous, inviting world of insanity?
I want to be insane with you. Run with me. Take a road we've never taken and lose ourselves.
Let's destroy each other. Just this once.
There's something awfully empowering about being a bitch. About not giving a shit. About finally telling people off for their faults and then walking away with a smug little swagger.
Everyone must hate me. Hell, I hate me too. It's nauseating to watch myself be so hateful and mean to people I love.
But will I stop? Nah. This was a terrible and gradual process--the transformation from sweet to bitter.
"You shouldn't let people walk all over you like that." they told me, and so I don't anymore.
I miss me.
I am bitch, hear me roar.
Eyes closed. I can still see the glare of the computer screen, etched--permanently white and blank--onto the insides of my eyelids. When I open them, my bottom eyelashes glow silvery like an angel's, and my hair is all lit up like a halo.
I want to be an angel. Do you think angels enjoy being angels? Or are they furious at their fate? After all, the bible says humans were given free will, but it says no such thing about angels. Do wings hurt when they're sewed on?
I don't think I want to be an angel.
Abandon hope, ye who enter here.
Oh, come away, come away, little child! Do not tarry here!
Danger. Dangerous. Caution. Stop.
Turn around and run away, you idiot! How many signs do I have to put up to make you understand? This shit is serious, man! You could die! You could be burned alive! Really freaky, gory stuff could happen to you here.
Really? REALLY?! Why are you still walking towards the most DANGEROUS PLACE ON EARTH?
Can you read?
You can read, right?
Because, if not, I just wasted a lot of paint, and that stuff ain't cheap.
When I burn through a candle, and after the wick gives its last stuttering spark and goes out with a gasp of smoke, I put my finger to the still glowing fiber and let it burn me. The death of something should be remembered. It should hurt.
Love and life and death? They're the same thing sometimes. They hurt. They hurt, and they leave us gasping for air and wishing for something to take the pain away. But sometimes, it's ok to hurt.
I suppose, in some warped fashion, I am trying to say I love you.
Oh, to move! To feel my heart align with the beat of the music--hitting hard and angry and powerful against my chest. To spin a pattern with my feet, knot a cord of magic with my arms. To fling myself into the air, and for an instant, feel it hold me above the ground against gravity like a parent with a child.
If I could dance for eternity--slowly whittling down to nothing but bones and weary muscles over the centuries--I would gladly do so.
May I turn to dust to dance on wind and rhythm.
One. Three. Thirteen. Magic number? God, I'm tired. I danced too long. Can hardly move. I'm heavy in the lightest sort of way.
I want to dance in a field with dandelion puffs and thistle down getting caught in my hair. I want to dance on ice, slipping and sliding and breathing in snow. I want to dance on stage in the lights. I want to dance next to you, inside you, in your brain and soul, moving your skin with my body.
I want to be closer to you. I want to be you. I want to own you.
There are two little pots of flowers on my windowsill. I bought them for 3.50 each. One is white, and one is yellow. They look like little bitty suns bobbing in the breeze from the fan. Little smiles.
They remind me of flowers given to a family at a funeral.
It would have been better if he had beaten me. It would have hurt less if he told me he hated me. Things would be simpler.
He makes it known in subtler ways. Little cuts and bruises on my ego, little doubts planted in my mind.
Close your eyes and read my mind.
Invade me. Control me.
Split my soul open and chew on the fat. Spit it out. Throw it away. Tear out my brain. Unravel my veins. Rip me up and throw me on a canvas. A masterpiece. Let's name it Unworthy. Worthy? Not enough for you.
Make me tremble in defeat. In disgust. In despair. Make me hurt. Beat, beat, beat with your anger. Make me remember why I hate you. Make me forget why I loved you.
Baby, that's all I want. Be the man you always pretended to be.
He sinks his claws into my leg and clings to me.
"Stay," he begs. "Stay with me. Be with me. Share my magic."
"No," I tell him and shake off his clutching fingers. The blood dripping into my socks feels cold.
"Run, run, run." The yucca trees buzz. "Run before he catches you."
"Be silent," I say. "I'll do what I want. To stay or to leave is my choice. Mine."
He licks the blood and sways. The sand beneath my feet shivers.
"Run." it whispers. "Run."
But for once, his magic doesn't scare me. I am with my dragon.
A fire burns beneath my skin. Flames crawl across my body. My clothes are singed and smoking. I shed them, and steam spirals to the ceiling. I am naked. Bare. Waiting.
Dream of me thus. Dream of me stepping from the pile of smoldering clothes and into your bed. Dream of me wrapping my heat around you. Share in my pain. Share in my pleasure.
Too much. Too much. Dear lord, it is too much for me! This heat shall drive me insane. I will die of this fire. Come with me. Die with me.
She is a lifeless woman--dry as the desert she inhabits and bitter as a green pomegranate. Sharp, she is. Full of sharp words and sharp glances.
She treats men with the same slumbering indifference as her desert treats the spring--change is nothing new, and nothing to be bothered about.
But there are tales of her younger years. Never was there a girl more filled with passion. A tree cut down for lumber reduced her to tears. A smile from a stranger would be cause for a dance. And love. Love was the greatest thing she knew.
So I dance. I close my eyes and dance. Dance until my body breaks down, and the world closes in. Dance until I find myself on the floor; cheek pressed to the carpet; vision grey and blurry.
I dance like I drink--to forget. To spin my thoughts into oblivion. To toss out everything I know and let some greater, more powerful force take control. Music or drugs or alcohol, it's all the same. It all ends with aching bones and a vengeful sort of satisfaction.
All I wanted was for you to be my music. My alcohol. My drug.
He is so convinced of his ability to seduce me. I say no, but he presses on, and I am not strong enough to push his hands away. His mouth is on mine, and for a moment, I think of biting his tongue. Of screaming. But no, he would be angry. And anyway, I love him, don't I? So I kiss back.
He is inside now, but I am not seduced. I beg for lube--for anything--but he can't be bothered to stop. Finished, I curl in a ball, and he throws me a towel.
"What's wrong?" he asks.
I want you. To tear into you like a beast with blood stained teeth and blackened nails. To give a guttural moan of pleasure. I want to claw your back to the spine. You make me wild, insane, a flash of lightening before the storm.
I want to taste your blood as you've tasted mine.
Did you enjoy my taste, my dear? Did it make you long for more? In the night, as you sip your alcohol and laugh your dizzy laugh, do you think of me?
Shush, darling. I shall not harm you.
I want you whole.
Sun-baked rocks balanced on my skin. Warm as a touch. Warm as the heartbeat of a baby animal, fluttering as it teeters on the edge of my leg.
"Do it again! Do it again!"
Then I'll do it myself. Pile rocks on my shoes as if anchoring my feet to the sand, as if they can weigh down the growing, blooming hope in my mind.
"Steady now." daddy says. "Gotta keep your feet planted on the ground. Keep your head out of the clouds."
I shake off the rocks. A release from reality.
Run away with me?
My grandfather gave me a set of chimes, passed down from generation to generation. Shaman to witch-doctor to voodoo priest to witch. It possesses great power, he tells me.
It is made of bones--tied together and hung from the window. They rattle in the breeze. Click. Clickclick. Click. A dry sound. The sound of desolation. Of hunger, famine. Of elephant graves and vast waterless wastelands.
"Our peoples' magic is not always good," he says. "Our people have cursed as well as blessed."
And the bones click and rattle as he speaks, reminding, always reminding.
We're not always good.
Fidgety. Jittery. Strung out, wound up. I am buzzing. I am lightning with no tree to strike. A bomb (tick tick tick) with the wire cut just before explosion.
Filled up. Filled up and spilling over the edges. Soaking the bathroom. Soaking the house. Soaking the world with this frantic humming energy.
Can you feel it? This shiver at the earth's core? The tremor in your bones? That hiss whispering in the back of your mind? Me. Can you feel me as the mountains do?
Quake and quiver. Shudder. Shudder. Shudder.
Breath, it will all be over soon.
As there is a dark side to the moon, there is a dark monster inside my soul. It sleeps, unseen, unheard. But outside is a purring, a siren call, a temptation, and the beast inside is beginning to wake up.
It rises at times, growling, thirsting for blood. It lusts for power. It hungers for what it can't have.
At these times, I am more demon than the black magicks slithering in the shadows of these mountains. Yes. I belong here.
Bloody my eyes. Blacken my veins. I will have the power of this land. I will own it all.
You've been so nice to me lately, and to be honest, it's freaking me out. After our talk (that sobbing mess of a discussion), you seemed to soften towards me, and though I appreciate the gesture, I'm afraid of the backlash.
Like a rubber band pulled back, you can only withhold your nature instinct to hurt for so long, and eventually, that band will snap.
Maybe it's cruel of me to think this. Shouldn't I have more faith in you? Sorry. After a year of learning to dodge the sharp edges of your tongue, I have learned to be wary.
I want to crawl around in your brain, pulling strings and tying knots. I want to poke, poke, poke it full of needles. Sew your thoughts shut with rainbow thread. (It's rainbow because you need more color in your life, you know.)
I want to taste you. Taste
. Taste the flavor of that soul you keep hidden so well. I want to tear open your chest and lick it--bright, slippery, as hard to catch as a soap bubble. You.
I want to bury you beneath yellow petals so even while you rot, you will smell like flowers.
I hate the last day of the month. It's like wrenching myself from a wonderful, impossible world--that same feeling as the last sentence in a good book.
Tomorrow, I will have an adventure. I don't know what kind, but I hope it will be worth waking up early. Morning is the terrible invention of a bored and crazed deity, but adventures sometimes makes it worthwhile.
I have the strongest urge to jump on a bus and disappear. But I won't. No. I will stay. Because my life is finally, finally coming into place. No. I will stay. I will.
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