Write the Story: A Letter Changes Everything
Include the following in your story:
Beneath a wilted ego and behind a shattered eye, ebony locks held the frame she called a face. A battered flask flattened her thoughts. A bruised pill loved her tenderly. An alchemist of the mind not of the heavy heart that lead blindly and with malice away from the ideals that would allow her to stay gold. She chased waterfalls, veering from the lakes and the rivers she refused to acclimate to. She ran down paths less wandered, running toward a life that did not want her, did not have room for her. To be a white glove upon the hands of time, cleanly ticking and tocking in rhythm of a lullaby would silence the dirty thoughts stowed away underneath the ego and cracked glass.
And so she wrote. She wrote on walls and wrote on skin. She jotted down the nonsensical quips, the absurd wit and the horrifying truths. Raw, unfiltered and cerebral in her delivery, it was in the moment she admitted that her unwavering feelings for the proscribed that she wrote to her demons.
To Whom I Concern:
The immeasurable prejudice that exists between your execution and your promises baffles me. As I sift through the incomprehensible array of bullshit that you wake me with, I can do nothing to pacify my cognition. What in the actual fuck are you trying to teach me? What is the lesson?
Angel headed hipsters, you laugh in the face of danger. You are not going to rob the bank of my love to satiate the debt of my infidelities. I cum bearing gifts, the gift of empathy, the gift of loyalty and the gift of multiplicity. My body is decorated, you may do what you want with it. Why do you force my feelings to bend towards the unattainable power play? Thick as syrup, you leave a sweet yet grainy taste in my mouth. What do her words taste like, the woman who does not see beyond the field of right and wrong? Does her roar echo amongst the laughing and fucking? Pink elephants and lemonade, Dear Jessie hear the laughter running through the love parade, or so you tease. My birthday is over and I can’t catch up. Spring chickens we are not and yet you allude me into feeling the sensation of butterflies. I don’t know why you are doing this to me. Can you please pick somebody else to set my sight on? I have a type as a writer. I sit in cottage dwellings, I dwell in city limits. I chameleon my way in the world but when it comes to your choice in female companions, your type is both blatant and unattainable. Knock that shit off. Let me be free of the “what if” torture. What if you let me go?
And the gypsy may not want to be alone forever, but she can be tonight, and perhaps tomorrow the woman she has her shattered eye on will be her home for the day.