This is an Apology

I’m sorry.

I’m sorry for so many things.

Somebody to Love

“The trouble is not that I am single and likely to stay single, but that I am lonely and likely to stay lonely.”
-Charlotte Brontë

This is Untitled Because I'm Tired and I Can't Think and Things Hurt Too Much Right Now

I want to write so desperately, but nothing comes out sounding good.  Not even remotely appealing.  I’ve never bothered with any literary devices.  Never given a thought to formal patterning, hyperbole, sensory detail.  I don’t make how I write a science, and I hardly ever edit, it’s just whatever sounds good.

Such is the Winter

I long for winter.  It exposes the stark reality of what hides behind and beneath layers of frivolous pretensions.  Naked and bare, there’s no point in even trying to evade the cold, the all-seeing eyes that thrive quietly in the wilderness.  Stripped, devoid of ornament and decoration, the superficial coverings have fallen away under the overwhelming pressure of frequent, icy embraces.  Skeletons, reaching towards the heavens and branching out into crooked, ugly shapes.  Withered fingers.  Without their billowy, flattering garments, the trees look emaciated and sickly, more fit for firewood than attractive landmarks.  The snow, if it can be called a comfort, is a suffocating presence despite the thinness of the air.  Breathing can be painful, like swallowing the sparks from a firecracker, or silver pins.  And don’t expose your skin, lest you desire the sensation of a tattoo needle embedding invisible ink into sick flesh long since pale.  The sun has gone into hiding, and when it does show, the light is bleak, frail, and might as well have stayed behind the grey slate of the hard clouds for all the heat it imparts to the chilled.  The stillness of the day is only rivaled by the catacomb silence of the night, where even the tiniest trill shatters the eardrum and cracks the tempered iron surface of the dead air, and is swallowed whole by the greedy hush, leaving one to wonder if there was ever a sound at all.  Such is the winter, such are the days where life stops living in order to hide itself from the horrors of existence in a final attempt to salvage itself, to repair itself quietly, hidden from the eyes of the world.

This is Fantasy Guy

I see Fantasy Guy one day each week for a minute, maybe two or three if I’m putsy and find excuses to be loitering around.  And sometimes it’s once every two weeks.  I know his name.  And that he has a girlfriend.  But that’s Real Guy.  Fantasy Guy is different. 

This is a Love Letter

Today’s the first day that it’s smelled like autumn since last October. 

This is, Ultimately, Procrastination

I should be doing something productive.

This is What I Want

I want to ooh and aah over fireworks with you.

I want to drive around with you when suddenly some random, barely played song comes on  the radio that we both know by heart, and I want to karaoke that shit out with you.

I want to make something with you, like a drawing or food or a home movie shot in sepia.

This is a Drink

Must…not…text…him…

This is an Adventure

So apparently my parents' tavern is haunted.  Not joking.

This is a Secret

A secret, as defined by Merriam Webster, is something kept from knowledge or view or, alternately, something designed to elude observation or detection.

We all have them. Some are embarrassing, maybe just silly. Others are dangerous.

I’m willing to share a few of mine.

This is a Sin

She’s not a bad person. Really, she’s not. She just has a few…character flaws. Minor things. Okay, maybe they are sins. Only a few though, maybe 6 or 7. But that’s it. Honest…

This is a Tattoo

It started with one on her lower back the day she turned 18.

This is What You Made Me

This is me freaking out that my brunette roots are showing through the variations of blonde.

This is Makeupless

The Only Means to Prove Oneself

Why do I listen to something so "stupid?"  Even though YOU won't read this, here ya go.  It's all I'll ever say.

The Way She Are

Ideally, she likes to write around the hours of 11 p.m. and 5 a.m. She feels her best work is produced between those two times. Her reasoning for that is this:

Young Writers

Love and Death and Loneliness

Death is not a fun topic to talk about, but it is one that needs to be addressed. Needs to be thought about.

Just an excerpt

This is pulled from a novel I'm working on,