if you want roses, go buy yourself a bouquet...
i just ran into bridget at the mall. i was a total ice bitch, and she just didn't get it. she doesn't get it. it just doesn't go through her thick, innocent little skull. i just wanna deck her when she looks at me with her huge brown eyes, looks at me like she's so surprised i'm pissed. why? why did things have to get so royally fucking trashed? it was so great. he liked me. i liked him. isn't that the hard part???? now he won't even talk to me. and all i can do is think about him. when i'm listening to music. when i'm making coffee. when i'm crossing the street. it was never EVER supposed to be like this. he was just a laugh, you know? a fun time. an easy flirt. but i like him. i really fucking like him. he's adorable. and i ruined it. and bridget set it on fire. and now it's ash and i'm SCREWED. yeah, sure. i'll get over it. i'll look forward and walk away. eventually i'll even forget. but i don't wanna. i like liking him. i liked the thought of having someone to walk me to classes, to kiss on the stairwell. i wanted to light someone's eyes again. i miss that. so much. fuck. ahhhhhhhh!
so i wrote this at 2 am last night on 4 shots of espresso, so if it sucks i'm sorry. i haven't read it since.
She put her cup down on the table, a deliberate, uncomfortable motion that drew my attention. My eyes noticed the spots of coffee and lipstick her mouth left behind on the rim. The cardboard insulator was stained dark brown in the places her nervous fingers and been just seconds before. Why was she so scared? I wondered, and I wanted to kiss her, to know what it was like to breathe the air from her lungs. She blinked. Her mascara was too dark for a Sunday afternoon. It made her look like she was trying too hard. I wanted to take my thumbs and smear the black down her cheeks. I wanted her to laugh at herself, because I love her and her eyes don’t matter. The killer was her top, some clingy, cheap fabric that jealously hugged her breasts and wouldn’t let go. It slipped from time to time, letting strangers around us catch glimpses of the pink bra she was hiding. She’d adjust is awkwardly, bringing more attention to how obviously self conscious she was. I wanted to take her top off. I wanted her to see that she could be totally here and now. I wanted her to feel safe around me. She looked at me and inhaled. Then her lips parted, and I knew she was going to say something. Something important. But all I could see were her two, full, glossy lips. They looked like ripe peaches or the sunset reflected off the ocean. I wanted to kiss them. Softly, like a prince would kiss his princess. Or maybe hard, like eating fruit. She started to say, “We need to talk,” but all I could see was her mouth, moving in graceful leaps and arches, like a dancer across an empty stage. She reached across the table and held my hand. She squeezed, and I could feel her shaking. “This isn’t gonna work.” It was a sign, and I didn’t believe it, not for a second. “You’re kidding.” “No, I’m not. I’m being very serious.” “Why not, then?” “Because…” And there was no answer to the question. No good answer, anyways. I just stared at her. As she sat there, blinking at me, waiting for a response. As she started to cry, black tears staining her freckled cheeks. As she stood, knocking her chair to the floor like a wounded soldier. As she walked out the door, got in her car, and drove away. And as I sat there, alone with her empty cup, I still didn’t believe her. I waited for her to come back. I waited for the punch line to the joke until the manager told me it was time for them to close. Then I got up and left, leaving the empty cup behind. I didn’t turn around once. Instead, I kept my eyes fixed forward, hoping that maybe, she’d be just around the corner. And every unsuccessful corner I turned, I prayed she’d be just around the bend.
so i wrote this at 2 am last night on 4 shots of espresso, so if it sucks i'm sorry. i haven't read it since.
She put her cup down on the table, a deliberate, uncomfortable motion that drew my attention. My eyes noticed the spots of coffee and lipstick her mouth left behind on the rim. The cardboard insulator was stained dark brown in the places her nervous fingers and been just seconds before. Why was she so scared? I wondered, and I wanted to kiss her, to know what it was like to breathe the air from her lungs. She blinked. Her mascara was too dark for a Sunday afternoon. It made her look like she was trying too hard. I wanted to take my thumbs and smear the black down her cheeks. I wanted her to laugh at herself, because I love her and her eyes don’t matter. The killer was her top, some clingy, cheap fabric that jealously hugged her breasts and wouldn’t let go. It slipped from time to time, letting strangers around us catch glimpses of the pink bra she was hiding. She’d adjust is awkwardly, bringing more attention to how obviously self conscious she was. I wanted to take her top off. I wanted her to see that she could be totally here and now. I wanted her to feel safe around me. She looked at me and inhaled. Then her lips parted, and I knew she was going to say something. Something important. But all I could see were her two, full, glossy lips. They looked like ripe peaches or the sunset reflected off the ocean. I wanted to kiss them. Softly, like a prince would kiss his princess. Or maybe hard, like eating fruit. She started to say, “We need to talk,” but all I could see was her mouth, moving in graceful leaps and arches, like a dancer across an empty stage. She reached across the table and held my hand. She squeezed, and I could feel her shaking. “This isn’t gonna work.” It was a sign, and I didn’t believe it, not for a second. “You’re kidding.” “No, I’m not. I’m being very serious.” “Why not, then?” “Because…” And there was no answer to the question. No good answer, anyways. I just stared at her. As she sat there, blinking at me, waiting for a response. As she started to cry, black tears staining her freckled cheeks. As she stood, knocking her chair to the floor like a wounded soldier. As she walked out the door, got in her car, and drove away. And as I sat there, alone with her empty cup, I still didn’t believe her. I waited for her to come back. I waited for the punch line to the joke until the manager told me it was time for them to close. Then I got up and left, leaving the empty cup behind. I didn’t turn around once. Instead, I kept my eyes fixed forward, hoping that maybe, she’d be just around the corner. And every unsuccessful corner I turned, I prayed she’d be just around the bend.