Scabbing (7 of 366)

I keep picking at our story, letting it scab over only to open it fresh again, thousands of blood cells coursing to the top for each moment together. Every time its scab over again, it’s for a little longer, and a little more skin is formed, and the wound gets smaller. It’ll scar, new light brown pink cells showing off, proud to have beaten my impulses. I doubt you have a matching one. You started dating someone else before we stopped. You penciled me a letter so I could be as easily erased from your life. I’ll burn it someday.

Weighed Down (2/366)

How do I even get out of here? There are no chains holding me down. The recesses so dark that they have their own kind of glow. But this is my nest and my cavern where not even bats will join me. They aren’t blind you know, just really bad at sight. As am I, especially in foresight. I should have seen this coming, should have been able to track this decline.

There is only a weighted blanket that I can throw off easily. Maybe the shades will close off the sunshine by themselves, shielding me from my own incapacity.

Bookstacks (1/366)

She towered over me like the bookstacks over her, our mouths clashing together, eager to suck each other in since we both knew the end of our own book was inching closer, page by page, kiss by taboo kiss. The prologue was so many years ago, and I wish we had stayed there. That there had been no beginning to even write about. That our story would have stayed in our childhoods, no breasts sliding against each other almost like a man’s wet dream. We were no one’s wet dream, not even our own. Our pages should have stayed blank.