phone goes off. another text from you. and I know it will be something sweet that I unequivocally cannot handle. My heart swells without even reading it.
My subconscious mocks me. This is bad.
I don’t fall for nice guys.
Bad boys are always predictable, always - always safe. You expect the cruelty, the heartbreak. You allow yourself to be numb.
It’s the nice ones you have to worry about, I tell myself. That’s where the risk is. It’s the kindness you can’t trust.
Because once you have it, you long for it. Once you open your heart to kindness, to love (
the real kind , the kind you’ve never had), you’re addicted. You’re aching for it. You’re vulnerable.
And it’ll hurt twice as much when he leaves.
The early summer rain painted the already-dull town of Clemont into a darker version of itself. Really, it wasn’t much of a difference. The little town had a cloud of somberness hovering above that seemed to leak out of every cobwebbed crevice and cranny.
Veda shoved her numb hands into the pockets of her black coat; the thin material barely protecting her from the bitter cold. One peculiar thing about Clemont was the weather. Mother Nature seemed to be absent entirely. The years’ cycle of seasons seemed to dash over summer and spring and had straight for windy autumn and bone-chilling winter. The only real contrast between seasons was the absence of the thick, drippy, and notably unpleasant snow; which was only replaced by equally unpleasant rain.
An endless winter.
Veda walked along briskly, her hood drawn around her face to help fight off the stinging rain plummeting around her. She silently skimmed the streets. They were void of cars or bicycles (which were rarely used anyways), but riddled every so often with occasional passerby. The fellow townsfolk mirrored her dark clothing, yet unlike her, wielded black umbrellas which bobbed up and down as they walked. Little black ants marching the streets of Clemont.
She looked at them curiously. Black umbrellas belong at funerals, she thought to herself. And this town just might be that. A silent funeral for spontaneity, for uniqueness. For non-existent summer days. The preacher would open his Bible and speak all things of worthwhile nature into oblivion…
A chilly draft blew her daydreams away, and released a few locks of onyx hair from her hood. Her intended destination was approaching, only a few blocks away by now. She picked up her pace, avoiding the eyes of those she passed. She couldn’t wait to pry off her rain-soaked clothes and exchange them for dry ones. She would sit by the oven; have the warmth it provided penetrate through and abolish all traces of Clemont’s dreary climate.
SUDDENLY THE FIRE NATION ATTACKED. AND KANYE RAN UP ON STAGE. AND THE BIG BANG HAPPENED AND MONSTERS CRAWLED OUT FROM THE WALLS AND CEILINGS TO GIVE SPEECHES TO THE CHILDREN ABOUT SAFE SEX EVERYBODY DIED.
Does no one else notice
Rich irony in a butterfly’s wings
I seem to shudder with the sheer beauty
In something so simple.
I’m sitting quietly behind desks,
Mozart coursing through my veins.
When the ghost of a girl
Longs to throw fists into walls
And scream outside the lines.
You refuse to see into my soul.
Yet so plainly,
Yours is layed out before me.
I can see the cracks
In the deepest depths of your eyes.
Your insecurity mirrored in my tears.
Rushed words and
Allow me to remember
Just how easy comatose sounds
To a broken girl.
Can you reach into my ash-filled lungs
Find the fluttering sparrow inside his rib-cage prison,
Play upon my heart strings,
And find a sound sweeter than expected?
I am human.
I ache for someone to see,
My potential for beauty,
Deeper than black holes.
You skim the surface with razored glances.