Write A Little Love Note.


This is a work of fiction, and nothing more.

Someone once told me that love was the best thing in the world to have.

I wanted to badly to believe that for a very long time

Meeting people, hoping they were my love.

Praying they were my love.

Dreaming they were my love.

They were always my undoing.

I would cling like a leach a sucker on each end.

Sucking one dry of all he had.

I did not understand why they all left.

What wasn’t there to like about me?

Possibly the fact that I am needy, complicated, and obsessive.

I live in a la la land, a beautiful delusional land where hearts are warm and everyone wants the same thing.

Love.

I have warped my mind, obsessing it with one little tiny thing.

I have forgotten about everything else.

No one cares to see me any longer, I cannot blame them.

I am not in touch with reality.

Someone once told me that love was the best thing in the world to have.

I cannot believe Love is real.

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One Thousand


I keep having this dream, it’s a rather peculiar dream.

How about I tell you about it.

I am on my way home from dinner with a very nice boy, he is tall and very beautiful, yet the second I saw him that night I knew it would never be. I knew that I would never love that man, and though I knew such a brutal truth so soon, I decided to chance dinner with this fine man, we talk, and laugh, it is a lovely night.

As we approach my apartment on a very busy street in a very busy city, on a very busy night he turned to me and said this:

My dear Veronika, I know you will never love me, believe me I’ve tried to make you love me many times in this life, I always fail. You like me, and you will always be there for me when I need you, you will never love me. Now this may not make sense, but I am here right now because you need me, not right this moment, but things are changing, and you will become an important person in our future.”

I gawk at this beautiful man, and I don’t understand why, but I feel his sincerity. Deep within my soul I know that he is telling me the truth. 

What is your name?” I ask, the curiosity getting the better of me.

The man smiled a smile that made me feel as though I’d lived one thousand lives with him. 

“Well now, you’ve gone an forgotten my name?” he jumped in front of me on the very busy sidewalk, disregarding the very busy people, bowed before me and said,

The names Beval”

and of course that is the very moment I awake every night I have this dream. Somewhere inside my soul I feel that Beval is real, that he is searching for me and finding me in my dreams instead of on this land. This means I must go and find him, I believe he is real. 

I Love Words


I am so excited to be able to participate in another one of Kat McNally’s wonderful writing shin-digs!

This is the second round of August Moon for me, and honestly last summer it helped me liberate myself in more ways than I was expecting. So I’m taking another journey in hopes that more writing, and sharing will help me find myself.

Anyhow, today’s prompt is What do you love?

Well, that’s an interesting prompt for me, especially with all of the things I actually don’t like discussing.

Write to hide the pain

Write to stay sane

Write to lose myself

Write to keep myself

Write for so many different reasons

Write enough to make my hands hurt

Write to make your heart hurt.

Write to feel nothing

Write to give everything

Write to be me.

 

Simple Misunderstandings


Understand this and only this.
There is no end to the madness.
Whenever it feels like it may be over
The second you feel like you can breathe
Those are the moments you should fear the most.
No one knows why this is.
And honestly there is no reason to question it.
When you begin to question the things that should remain unknown
You begin to flirt with death.
Situations like that never end well my dear.
I know many things you’ll never care about.
I know many things none of you may never know about.
You notice me when you see me.
But when you notice me it’s only what you can see with those
Shallow eyes.
Never will you see me for what I was intended to be.
Not until I rip this mask from my face, and show you all the demons inside of me.
Even then, when I have everything exposed before you
EVEN THEN
You still just will not see me.
Instead you’ll take a quick peek into yourself and see all the imperfections
The ones you never quite wanted to believe.
I will ruin you, everything you ever loved about yourself
Destroyed.
And what for?
Just so you can hear about my poor lost soul?

A View


I can’t pretend this is hard to see

It’s actually quite clear, but why, oh how, did it get this bad? 

I cannot pretend to understand

But, how do I even start?

There is broken pieces of life every where I look

Misunderstood souls.

I cannot pretend that I am a hero

Yet why do I feel the need to get out the glue?

Every day it’s something new

It’s tragic, or a little magic, it’s never what we need.

I can’t pretend it’s hard to see

It’s all around in me,

in you.

I’m telling you there’s got to be a reason behind this madness.

How, oh how did it get this bad?

So bad that we have forgotten our humanity, and for what?

For who?

I cannot pretend that I am a hero

then again

neither can you.

A Moment With the Real Me


Usually for the writing done on this blog there is no plan, no outlines, no pre-writing. This is the place where I just write, whatever usually comes into my head, and I never usually share my personal writing because I’m not sure how people would react to it. Some of my more personal work is dark, twisted, morbid, but what the hell, why not.

But please remember, this is all fictional, none of this is real.

She said this time she’s really leaving.

                Sometimes she says that.

                                                                It’s always hard to tell if she’s bluffing.

                She’s got two suitcases packed.

                                                                                                She’s serious.

                                Maybe I should tell her to stay.

                                                                But they said we don’t need her anymore.  

So really she should just go.

                I’m sitting on the floor, I think I can see her crying.

                                And I think she might be yelling.

                                                                                It kind of sounds like she is asking me to try.

 

 

But why?

 

Why would I want to try and make her stay, if we don’t need her anymore?

 

                                                                                The door slammed.

                                No more sweet Allison at night.

I don’t need her, she was crazy.

                                                                               

                                                                                                                                She will be back soon anyhow.

 

I get up off the floor, and move to the bathroom.

I taped a blade to the bottom of the bathroom sink a few months ago.

                                I haven’t seen my own blood in weeks.

                                                                I closed my eyes once the cold blade was in my hand.

And I cut.

                                                                                                I cut deep into my arm, and I inhale sharply.

I don’t open my eyes, but I see my blood.

                                It looks like Allison.

And it looks like my brother.

                                                                                It looks like what has been stolen.

                                                                                                                                                And what I’ve lost.

I crawl into the tub and I lay there, letting my arm bleed.

                                They tell me by doing this, I can see. I can see everything they want me to know.

So I take the blade, and cut once more into my thigh.

                                The blood looks like my stolen childhood.

                                                                                                                                It looks like drugs.

Like sex.

                                                My blood looks like everything I have ever done wrong in my life.

Everything that makes me human.

                                They make me feel as though I’m not human.

                                                Like I’m just a host for them to play around in.

               

 

                                                                                               

 

                                                                                                                They’ve taken everything from me.

When I was nine, my brother told my mom about Stella.

 

Now Stella was not the first one that came to me, but she is the one who started this mess.

                                At first, I did not talk to them aloud. Archie, the first one that came to me, told me if I talked to them with my mouth that someone could hear me, and they would not understand.

                I guess I was the only one who could see them.

Tucker, my brother, once heard me fighting with Stella.

                                We did that a lot.

                                                                                Looking back now, Stella had a lot of passion. She was always getting me to try and do things I knew I shouldn’t do.

 

Like talking to her with my mouth.

Tucker told mom that I was yelling at myself in the bathroom for an hour.

Tucker could tell on me because he was thirteen so he was obviously entitled.

Mom asked me why I was yelling at myself in the bathroom.

                I said I didn’t know what she was talking about.

Mom asked me if Tucker was being a liar.

                I said this time Tucker kind of is a liar.

Mom asked me what I meant.

                I said I was yelling, but not at myself.

That’s when Stella told me to shut my fucking mouth.

Mom asked me who was in the bathroom with me.

                I said I didn’t know what she was talking about.

Mom said, if you weren’t yelling at yourself, someone had to be in there with you.

                I said she was right.

Stella began screaming so loud in my head.

Mom said something but I couldn’t hear her.

                I think I screamed.

Moms lips moved some more, but she didn’t look scared.

Stella was still screaming.

                I dug my fingers into my face and began to scream.

 

I have a scar under my left eye from that day.

                                                Weird how that works out.

 

 

 

He was really good at hiding it, we had no idea what was going on until his brother mentioned he was arguing with himself in the bathroom. 

It Gets Better: Part Two


In 2011, I stumbled across a project, many celebrities partake in this project as well as many kids who have been bullied. It’s called the It Gets Better project, and it’s from people who have made it through all the hard stuff they faced in life for people who struggle through the day. I fell in love with the idea, and did a video of my own.

Unfortunately I was embarrassed and took it down. In this video I shared with people the pain I’d been through when I was a kid, I exposed my open wounds, my past being bullied. I took a moment to share with everyone that despite the fact that I got teased, being told I looked like a boy, being mocked and laughed, I made it. I shared with everyone that you can make it through really difficult things.

Now it is 2014, and I am in this really destructive mind-set, that everyone I’ve ever needed is gone. I try every day to think that things will get better, and ultimately I fail. I get angry at myself because I’m not living the way that everyone else is, and therefore, I look like a failure. I come up with great ideas to make things, learn to knit a new project, or do something inspiring, but I knock myself down because I can hear people chastising me about the cost of supplies, or how this isn’t a “future”. 

This is worse than bullying, my life has been warped into this idea of school, more school, work, bills, and death.

Why do you get to judge, criticize, and damage me, because I see this life differently? I do not see all the money, the obligations, I see that no matter how hard you work, no matter if you pay your bills on time, no matter how picture perfect you think your family is, bad things will still happen. Bad things will still happen to all the people who did life the “right way” because that is how life works, so someone please take a moment to explain to me, why I am wrong? Tell me why I am wrong, for thinking that I should spend my time exploring this beautiful place, and doing things to enrich my mind, body, and soul, and not my damn bank account?

It is 2014, and things are not better, things are a whole new slew of worse, but I will not let that stop me. You people can judge, mock, laugh, do whatever you need to do to feel good. I am done pretending, done molding to your expectations, I want to live my life the way I was intended to. I want to go outside, and not worry about all these stupid rules we have. I want to be able to live my life, without people telling me I am wrong for it. 

So, I suppose things are not better, and they won’t be better until I fix it myself. You cannot rely on anyone to be there for you, even if they are your person, your family, or ‘the one’. You can hope that you picked some good people to support you, but they cannot do the work for you. Things will get better, it will get better, and when it does, I will have no one to thank other than myself.