At a loss for words
I could tell stories for days. I mean years if I truly desired, but over the years words have surpassed leaving me in the dust, hiding in caves from the depth of the ocean. Words would no longer spill from my lips I could not mange to utter them, as if letters, adverbs, and nouns were no longer my friends but my enemies. I wish I could find the words, the letter, and the vowels to make a sentence full of meaning. If it were that simple I would utter meaning full sentences day by day. But I can’t, I refuse to, I lost the meaning to utter words after Rose. Rose was the start and ending of every sentence, the words at the tip of my tongue. What word do I start with if not Rose? I can start with “the” “who” “what” but a response would be pointless if not from Rose. And well Rose no longer is but was Rose.
She sat on the road side. Hot wind surrounded her, cars flying past her, leaving her undisturbed. Her jeans ripped at the knees, an ice cold tea by her side, the cup already sweating from the contrast of hot and cold. Sucking on a lemon turned brown from the tea, letting the acid settle on her tongue. Her “black” converses long lost their color, were playing with the dirt, moving cigarette butts into a pile. She spit the lemon peel onto the street and a car ran over it turning it into a yellow C onto the black pavement. She looked down at the cigarette butts, picked one up with her bitten nail hands. She brought the stained lipstick butt to her lips. She inhaled and exhaled into the hot humid air. She threw the cigarette back onto the street and watches cars run over the lemon peel and butt.
Full Moon
He stood by the lake with the love of his life by his side. mosquitoes dance around them, the summer heat being their reminder of their last summer together. She pulled her shirt over her head. He took his shirt off and both dropped it on the dock. Both put there hands out and reached into each other grasped. Took a breath in and jumped into the lake. The water rippling causing waves to go through the reflection of the full moon. Holding into each others arm and letting the heat surround them. Crickets began chirping playing a melody that only they could hear, letting their smiles glow into the night. As if their love was meant to last past the summer, as if it could survive, knowing that in the end their paths would only meet in their dreams of false hopes, wishing the sun would not replace the full moon of that night.
Well it doesn’t matter what I was told. I mean it does but do you really care to know. Its best you don’t know because then you would assume you understand the situation and well I can guarantee you, you will never fully comprehend the situations. Well I’ll let you know I was once told “You won’t ever have sex because you care too much what mother thinks.” I mean when this statement was, well, stated, we happened to have just wsmokedeed and we always say that the most pure form of thought. It’s when the ideas flow, your heart starts beating faster, then life itself, and your mind stops judging like you are right now, thinking “what’s the point of this story?” Well, there is no point really. Or maybe there is let me get back to my original thought. All these side tracks which keep coming up I mean I guess I keep writing pointless sentence, because I don’t want to face the facts which is. I do care. I mean ok I’m back to my original thought. I care too much what mother thinks. I think sometimes that I was brainwashed. They say you grow up when the idea of what other portrays you as no longer affects you. Which I think shows that I haven’t grown up yet since what mother thinks of me, is a hidden fear I have. But WHY! Why! Why? do I care, so much don’t get me wrong caring what mother thinks has saved me from many mistakes that I would have made, maybe that is what is wrong, the fact that I didn’t even allow myself to make a mistake. But who wants to make mistakes anyways. Right? But don’t you learn from mistakes? So me caring what mother thinks of me means that I’m preventing myself from making my life my own? I mean since your judging my work and sitting there looking at all my misspelled words, what do you think? Should I care? Or no why am I asking you? It doesn’t matter you would be basing your answers all on assumptions because well you and I both know that you will never fully comprehend my situation.
He declared his love, through letters, through email. He looked into the depths of his heart. [Fact: your heart is the size of your fist.] He lost sleep from writing these letters. All stacked in a pile that lay on the corner of his bed. All addressed to the some place hoping one day he’d have the nerve to stamp them and send them of to their location. He use to buy shoes just to fill the box up with letters of his unspoken love. He wrote a letter a day. [Fact: there are three hundred sixty- five days in one year] He wrote millions of them sometimes twice a day. One year he wrote one word love letters. [Fact: it takes earth one year to revolve around the sun.] Then email was invented and he would write emails. He would write love letter in the subject box, but he would never actually send the email. [Fact: two billion emails are being sent every second.] They were piled up in a folder titled “Letters of love.” He would punch at the keyboard one letter at a time struggling to find the words. His glasses would slide down his nose. His eyebrows rose every time he pressed the space bar, clicking steady like a clocks second’s hand. [Fact: there are eighty-four thousand four hundred seconds in a day] He wrote and wrote, and no one every read his lover letters. They were lost, hidden in the pile of shoe boxes, piled up in his email.[Fact: all “facts” were found on the internet, therefore these “facts” are more like approximation rather then exact numbers.]
She struggled to tie the band around her bicep. She pulls out her silver spoon puts powder; she puts the spoon over the candle and waits for the powder to turn black. She takes the needle and injects it into a vain, rocking and back fourth waiting for it to take effect. She closes and opens her eyes, craving more, and the needle goes back into the vain. She grabs her greasy strawberry blond hair and pulls. Pulls until all her hair is on the floor. She bits and bits till she has no more nails, and she settles onto the floor in the middle of the bleak room, and lays counting her breathing watching her chest go up and down up and down.