If your charm and allure could be bottled, it would come in the form of a yellow plastic shell, with never enough pills to fill the empty.
That sticky-stuck label with my name, but not the name of my addiction. The child-proof cap, but I’m not an adult. The shake-shake-shake of God I need a refill.
Remember when life was about the sigh between breaths? When it was shattering windows to see the confetti of sparks and throwing shards into the sky to make stars? Do you remember when life was skipping rope then skipping class then skipping lovers? Remember when you were the only thing that made sense chasing after?
Remember when life was pretending to save each other in the pool? We were lifeguards throwing rafts and buoys. Remember when life was actually saving each other? No rafts, but we clung to each other to keep from drowning.
Remember when life was all about nights spent together? Fingers twisted and gnarled and my heart as helpless against you as the dried grass is helpless to the flame.
It was always my favorite thing when you would take my spine and twist it in those deceptively strong hands of yours. Everything about you was deceptive. But you loved to twist and wring and release only when you heard the protesting whine of my vertebrae.
I loved it when you would listen through my chest and mimic the sound of my heartbeat. My heart always pounded faster when you did that, and you laughed that wonderful sound of yours.
With you, I was only ever content when you were hurting me.
We treat writers like gods.
And for what?
Because they can create entire worlds from an expanse of nothingness, a recreation of the Beginning? Or because they hold the lives of creatures and beings that are so real to us within a stroke of a pen? They create, they invoke, they inspire emotions we never knew existed within us.
They are magic.
We treat writers like gods.
And for what?
They’re the most broken Humans of all.
You never completely left.
I avoid all of the places we went together, yet everything reminds me of you. I deleted every photo of you, yet your image is still burned in my memory.
I tore apart all of the poems I wrote for you, and yet the jagged pieces of paper are still stuck between the coils, and I can dig them out.
I drew you out on the page, keeping outside the lines, leaving your vibrancy bleeding off into the corners. The lines of your smile, the crinkles in your eyes, the soft fingertips, they’re all there. Every sour-lipped, razored word, every moment you left me in the darkness and every whisper that stilled my heart. Every finger traced on my spine, every gentle kiss and every bone bruise that you left, it’s all there.
And now I don’t know what to do with you.
The day was kind when I received your last letter. The sun hung in the backdrop of the cotton-candy sky, neither too intrusive nor without warmth, inviting with the pull of spring to step outside.
You went on about things, lovely things, how no one had ever inspired greatness within you the way that I had. “You are a whirlwind, love,” you told me. “A hurricane whose strength and danger is what draws us in, and it is that curiosity and desire that destroys those who love you.”
So, you disappeared. You said you were doing the right thing, that if we were lucky, only you and I would be hurt.
Little did I know you’d simply moved on.
Little did I know, you were only thinking of yourself.
And little did I know, that’s all you ever did.
You were a fountain. A cold downpour of ice, chilling bone, without the reprieve of a hot summer’s afternoon to stave off the frostbite. You were the stone basin overfilled with the golden glitter of pennies, tossed carelessly into your gush with the hope that a wish wanted was a wish granted. You were the tingle of spray caught on the delicate breeze, the current, the undertow, the pipes underneath.
You were the curves of the pebbles held firm in my hands, the numb of my fingertips and the aches in my bones.
You were the northern gale, the midnight downpour, the wake of tomorrow.
Yet I tossed in my penny and hoped for the best.
For those of you who are struggling with writing, I have completed a how-to guide that is certain to kick you in the pants and get started. Because let’s face it, for most of us, writing is 5% actually writing and 90% talking about writing. The other 5% is consuming treats.
This guide is simple. It only has one rule. That’s it! One single rule.
But, before I impart this wisdom upon you, you need to evaluate something within yourself. And that is: do you really want to write?
I don’t mean on days when the words flow like a sweet chilled wine and everything falls into place.
I mean on days where you want to destroy every bit of written word you’ve ever created. On days when you hate yourself and hate your words and hate the words of others because they’re better than yours.
Can you commit to he written word even then?
Are you in it for the love of it? Do you write because you have no other choice? Are you consumed and destroyed and filled by written word?
Then the answer is simple.
Write.
It’s kind of nice just being an option, you know? The in-between, the until-things-get-better, the on-the-side-entertainment. The only thing expected of you is to always be available when the other one wants you, right? That’s not too much to be asked. A little casual sex here, some company there. Let’s grab some pizza and hang out, let’s go for a drive and talk, let’s sit outside in the dark for hours divulging what hurts us the most and what ripped our guts out and let’s cry in the shadows about what life really is like. Let’s fall into one another and pretend that my feelings are invisible just like the strain on my face when you tell me about her.
Being an option isn’t so bad, right? Nothing will come of it, so I can’t get hurt. It’s a perfect situation.
