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It's always something with men. You're not dressed nice enough. You're clothes aren't tight enough. You don't wear-oh wait. This is starting to sound quite superficial, isn't it? I guess that's just how men are. Always looking for the prettiest woman out of the bunch. Always wanting the woman in the nicest clothes, just to get her out of those clothes. Why bother? Might as well go for a woman in baggy pants and sweatshirt. I promise she has the same parts as the ditzy blond in the skintight cocktail dress. Hm...interesting that it's called a COCKtail dress.
Chocolate makes me feel good. Strawberries make me feel better. So it would seem that chocolate covered strawberries would give me the euphoric feeling that would send me through the roof. And yet they do not. Which causes me to be disappointed and sad. Which then makes me think of how sad I am and it's slightly depressing. Therefore, chocolate makes me feel good. Strawberries make me feel better. But together they make me indirectly depressed. So two good things, combined make something bad. I feel like this has something to do with Science. Maybe not. I still like strawberries.
I feel their eyes on me. Watching every move I make. The twitch of my fingers. The batting of my eyelashes. The shifting of one foot to the next. The way my teeth dig into my lower lip. They're watching it all. They're cataloging my life. I wish I could vanish. Sink into the shadows and disappear. Hide away from the judgments and the eyes that glow in the darkness. Eyes that stare into me. Into everything that is me. Every part of my soul is being pried into. Dissected. Like some ugly poisoned to death frog in a classroom.
He carried her carefully over the threshold. Not because he wanted to. But because he had to. Her family was watching. He had to keep up the act as long as he could. He brought her into the bridal sweet, and laid her down on the bed. She looked up at him with distantly cold eyes. Her lips turned down in annoyance.
"Don't look at me like that," he sighed.
She turned her head to look at the open curtains. Her family outside the windows, watching them.
"Hurry up," she said tiredly, "we only have 'til death do we part."
She swung her head back, letting her long black hair flutter behind her as she looked up at the night sky. Though her glowing black eyes were torn from the sight of the moon to the ground below. Clutching the rooftop to keep steady, she saw a stream of wolves rushing from the woods and flooding across the lawns, around houses. Her mother and father stayed huddled by the chimney. She stared down in confusion at the wolves. One wolf caught her eye. She smiled, lifting a pale hand to wave at it. It threw back it's head and howled.
"I'm the most untrustworthy woman you'll ever meet," she said softly, her lips spreading into a sweet, thin smile. But something behind her eyes was not so sweet.
"Well I never said I was all that trustworthy either," he said with a smirk, thinking this was a flirtatious game he had to keep up.
She merely smiled. It sent a chill up his spin and he didn't know where this was coming from. She crossed her legs, her already short skirt, hiking up her thigh.
"Don't play with me sweetie," she cooed, her hand on his chest, "You'll get hurt."
We just radiate off each other, these anger spells. The screaming rises like an endless tidal wave, hovering over us. Casting us into shadows. Shadows of rage. Of passion. We've always been so passionate. But passion is not about love. Our passion is of hatred. We hold so much of it. It weighs heavily on our hearts. Pressing down on our souls until there's nothing left to do but explode in a terrible storm of rain and thunder.
The tidal wave slowly comes down, crashing over us. There's nothing we can do. So we just let it carry us away.
Love is certainly like a drug. How cliché. And yet it's true. It's get you so high that you feel nothing could ever hurt you. You have some ridiculous sense of safety that isn't real. Some unnecessary belief that the world is suddenly made of butterflies and rainbows. How unlikely. And yet you believe these silly things, just because he kisses you. And yet like a drug you have to feel the after effects. The horrible shaking. The vomiting. The crying. Because eventually that feeling of utter happiness has to be torn from you. Like a drug. It can kill.
"What's the worst thing someone's ever said to you?" he asked as he sat beside her. She looked sideways at him. Strands of hair partially covering her black eyes. He smiled. He couldn't help it. She's always so rough. So cold. But he could see through that wall she built up.
"The worst thing?" she scoffed, " 'I love you'. "
His smile faded, "I said that to you."
"I know. You're a fool."
"...what's the best thing anyone's ever said to you?" he asked softly.
She glanced at him again, "...'I love you'. "
"You're still a fool," she sneered.
Lying on her back, staring up at the marble ceiling. Pale fingers idly twisting the silky gown that sat neatly around her body. She shouldn't lay on dirty grounds in such a gorgeous white dress.
Letting out a sigh, she brushed loose black strands of hair out of her face. The rebellious strands float back across her eyes, being blown there by the breeze coming in through the lovely stained glass window.
She inhaled slowly. The breeze wafting in picked up the odd yet lovely scent of the towers of old books that surrounded her.
Everything's so still. So peaceful.
Tap. Tap. Tap. My foot won't stop. It's my nerves. They always take over my leg when I'm anxious. I don't know what I'm so worried about. I studied all night. Not all week. All night. I just cram all the information in, in just one night.
Tap. Tap. Tap. Now it's my fingers. Well actually my pencil. But my fingers won't stop twitching.
'Ow!' ...oh right. I should stop biting my lower lip.
'Ugh...' I feel so nauseous. My stomach keeps twisting and clenching.
Now the paper is in front of me. Filled with foreign words.
I give up.
There was so much screaming. But it's not the screaming that bothers me. They could at least aim the wine glasses and the vases at the opposite wall. In the least it would be polite of them. I'm not part of this stupid disagreement.
Glass shards shower over me, grazing my body. Leaving behind small slices, in my skin that disappears behind bubbles of red liquid. It slides down my arms. My legs. My face. These lovely red rivers flow so slowly. So gently. So distractingly. I barely hear the screaming anymore. All well. Not like it bothers me anyway.
You think you're being clever. You think you're being unique.
Every thought you've ever had has been someone else's first. Unless you are Adam, you have no original thought. You can only have it if you are the first person to exist. So only Adam has the right to say 'I thought of it first'.
But Adam's dead. So I guess it doesn't matter that much. We can all just lie. Whether purposely or not. We all just lie and say we thought of it first.
Well guess what. You didn't think of it first. I'm surprised you even think.
It's simple. So simple. Just sit down. Take a deep breath. So simple.
I keep telling myself it's no big deal. Anxiety never helped anyone. Deep breaths are calming. Clearing one's mind is another helpful technique. Just breath. In and out. In and out. Steadily.
My hands are still shaking though. Can't get them to stop. It's ok. There's no reason to get so stressed. So anxious and worried.
I clench my fingers.
Just smile. I heard once that smiling tricks the brain into thinking you're happy. So I smile.
My finger presses the trigger.
What utter insanity. Such bliss.
Muse. Muse. Muse. I'd like to have a Muse.
Perhaps he is my Muse. Lovely black hair, hanging down on his back. Piercing blue eyes. His body beyond the idea of just being toned. But such a nasty attitude. Not him.
Maybe it's her. Golden eyes. Luxurious white hair. Wings of an angel. But that ugly black horn on her head. No. Not her.
Perhaps it's him. Sea green hair. Hollow black eyes. A smile that could kill. I want him to be my Muse. But...no. Not him.
Perhaps there are too many.
Too many to choose from. Damn.
I'm sitting here quietly, like nothing's wrong. Staying so still in silence. While the gears are turning in my head, faster and faster. Cracking against each other as they spin out of control. Cogs and springs breaking; bouncing off the inside of my skull. Smoke and chipping pieces of debris fill the air. The gears turn faster. Harder. Screws falling out of place; clattering against the back of my eyes. Faster still. Harder still. Everything cracking; breaking in half, falling to pieces against the back of my forehead.
A monotone voice sounds.
"The mechanics of this mind have shut down."
I have nothing to write about. I have nothing to write about. I have nothing to write about. I have nothing to write about. I have nothing to write about. I have nothing to write about. I have nothing to write about. I have nothing to write about. I have nothing to write about. I have nothing to write about. I have nothing to write about. I have nothing to write about. I have nothing to write about. I have nothing to write about. I have nothing to write about. I have nothing to write about. I have nothing- Damn.
Circles. Circles. So many circles. Round. Colorless. Irritating spheres. I spin with hatred. Burning rage. No circular patterns are allowed here. Cycling. Cycling. And recycling. Over and over again. Circles so horrid. Useless. Repeating themselves. Repeating mistakes. Starting and ending in the same old fashion. Hollow center. It circles nothing. It just continues. On and on. Circling nothingness.
Circles. Circles. Circles. So many circles. Repeating in a sphere around nothing of importance. Repeating in a cycle around nothing of use. Around emptiness.
Circles. Spheres. Around they go. Do they stop? I'll never know. Circles. Circles.
Make me so damn dizzy.
I didn't ask you. You feel as if your opinion is so important. As if it means the world. Perhaps it means the world to someone. But that someone isn't me.
I'm not looking to be fixed. What I do, I do for me. I don't sit around wondering what others think. What you think. I don't sit around worrying, 'it's not good enough for you.'
How dare you. In your selfishness. How dare you think I thrive on your thoughts. You must be so proud of your ideas. Well they mean nothing here. Lock them away. Keep them there.
When life gives you lemons, make lemonade. When life gives you rocks, make Rock n' Roll. When life gives you money. ......life wouldn't give you money. Life is stubborn. Selfish. It would never hand you something so convenient.
Lemons, yes. Lemons are useless.
Rocks, sure. You'll get them thrown at you more often than handed to you. But you get them either way.
Money, no. Never. Foolish of you to think you could be given something so nice.
And even when life does drop money at your feet.
You have to return it to the lucky bastard that dropped it.
"Even if I leave you now and it breaks my heart. Even if I'm not around. I won't give in. I can't give up. On this love." -The Veronicas [This Love]
"I got a knife in my back, quit turnin' please." -Anjulie [Rain]
Have you ever heard lyrics that completely contradict each other (from different songs), and yet both set of lyrics seem to mean something to you? Maybe it's just me. I love the song 'This Love' by The Veronicas. And yet I hate the concept of love songs. I do however like heartbroken songs.
A bit too much.
I want to quit my job. I want to quit school. I want to quit waking up.
I want to quit making breakfast. Making lunch. Making dinner.
I want to quit making phone calls to friends too far away to see.
I want to quit smiling at you because it helps your day go by.
I want to quit studying. I want to quit stressing. I want to quit crying.
I want to quit screaming on the inside and not on the outside.
I want to quit laughing.
I want to quit.
I just want to quit.
Let me quit.
The bottle is empty. The ash tray is full. The little Marlboro pack is empty. The electricity's been shut off.
Dull embers from cigarette butts dimly show through the shadows that consume the sad one room apartment. Sprawled out on the couch with a shattered bottle against my palm. Trickles of blood river slowly down my fingers onto the dirty brown carpet.
Mascara bleeds from the edge of my eyes, down my cheeks. Vacant eyes stare up at the teetering ceiling fan as it rotates slowly, emitting a soft humming noise.
It's keeping time with my sadly still beating heart.
I watched him, as he stood from his seat and walked out of the room for the very last time.
The end of the year had come. I had wasted four months. On that last day, he didn't even glance in my direction. He didn't know what it meant to watch him walk out of that room.
I'd never said a word to him. I don't really even know him. His name was Arthur. He was everything I hate. Leather jacket. Slicked back blond hair. Bright blue eyes. Stereotypical 'hottie'. I hate it.
Yet, I regret never uttering a word.
I wanna feel you writhe beneath me
Twisting, turning desperately
Begging, pleading, with withered voice
Tears cascading, helpless moans
I wanna feel you weakening
Feel you tense uncontrollably
As I tower over you.
Hear you cry out in this dark room
Hear you gasp against my touch
I feel this power surging through me
As you fall on bended knees
You look at me with lusting looks
Lusting for your life
Digging my stiletto's heel in your shoulder
Pushing you down against the darkly stained carpet
Dagger swaying in my fingers
Your eyes wide like a helpless deer
Blood red lips pulled up in a smirk
Beg me over and over again
It won't do you any good.
Go ahead and call me sexist.
Men have gotten weak. At least the men around me.
The whole 'equality of the genders' thing has seriously gotten them screwed up. What ever happened to benevolent sexism?
I don't want hostile sexism. Women and men are equal and all that jazz.
But seriously. Hold the door open for me. Don't let it slam in my face. Step to the side. Don't make me walk in the mud while you're on the sidewalk.
But maybe non of this is actually sexism. Perhaps chivalry is not dead. No. It's not. People are just rude.
"What are you still doing here?" He seemed alarmed as he looked over his shoulder, sitting up in bed.
"What...? Is it dawn already...?" The other asked, blurry-eyed still from the night of little rest.
"Yes, it is! Why are you still here?" He questioned, more sternly. His face a mixture of annoyance and panic, "She'll be back soon!"
Sighing toward a different type of annoyance, the other shifted over and gently pressed his lips against the man's cheek.
"Relax. I'll leave now."
He reached out, grabbing the other man's arm.
"....maybe you can stay. ...just a little longer."
I feel so strange. My stomach is twisting. Clenching. Knotting.
My head is swimming. Swirling. Dizziness hardly describes it.
My legs weaken. Stumbling. Tripping. Give me walls to hold me up.
Fingers twitching from lack of voluntary control.
My body doesn't want to listen to me.
I collapse in bed. It's not even comfortable. I shift irritably. Onto my back. Onto my stomach. Both of my sides. It all feels the same. Horrid discomfort.
My eyes are burning. Dry. Stinging.
Can't breath. Inhaling unevenly. Heart racing.
What are you thinking?
I'm not in love you idiot.
I'm just sick.
I didn't think I needed them. But my head had been spinning. My hands were trembling as I reached for the tiny bottle being handed to me. I didn't think I needed them. But they made me feel so good. I shoved the bottle into my pocket. It costs so much money. But I needed them.
I try to pop the cap off the bottle. Child safety lock is a pain. I wouldn't want children getting into this. But it's still a nuisance.
It pops off. I pop the small white pills.
My psychiatrist knows just what I need.
I drank alone tonight.
That can't be a good sign.
I just really needed a drink.
I've never needed a drink.
I'm just not like that.
But I needed one tonight.
I hate everything.
Makes me hate less.
That's good, right?
How can that be unhealthy?
I told you there was something wrong.
But you just ignored me.
Instead of asking, 'why?'...'what happened?'
You said, 'okay.'
I feel very okay.
As I lift the glass to my lips.
Let this poison run through me.
Then maybe I'll cry myself to sleep.
I tried. I really tried to end on a good note. Really I did.
I wanted to bombard you with sunshine and rainbows. Maybe throw in a few butterflies for effect. But no. None of it would come out. None of the cliches would come out how I wanted them to.
The room is dim and it makes it impossible to think of sunlight. Sunlight doesn't even mean happiness. It just means trudging out of bed to deal with life.
Rainbows aren't that great either. Not if you consider how their made.
With rain. With tears.
What a happy ending.
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