He gave me advice on being positive. I didn't want to but I despised it. He didn't know me enough to preach hope to me. I need to remember not to do that to others.
She grinned at me, unwitting, baring all teeth, all four false and the thirty-something real ones. The creases at the corners of her eyes spewed across her features like fireworks in mid explosion. She exaggerated her smiles all the time. I managed a reply, with my own smile on the face she gave me and at one time, the face that she herself had possessed. There are times when I love her so much I'd feel nothing but pure, concentrated remorse for the way things and I have been. The other times, I feel nothing but repulsion.
Too many things have transpired since last we spoke. My stories run for too long and my tongue grows weary with repetition. I fill in the blanks with "you know what I mean"s, hoping that you'd have enough of the fabric to work with and conjure the remaining details with what your head desires or so thinks suitable. Our relationship is sullied with the convenience of "I miss you"s and very soon we will remember conversations only of "you just had to be there"s. Or worse, of "you should have been there"s.
The thought of him, just the mere thought, sends tremors through my veins. But I use your company as a weapon. A risky and selfish endeavour meant only to mollify the childish pride which burns white hot and tangible in my stomach. I've put up many defences and stayed well behind enemy lines since the day that I found out the truth about the parents. This will merely be another lesson and yet another nail in the fence that separates heart from hurt.
I think my life in prose. It makes for pages meant to be filed in an autobiography in the air. Sleep a day and it yields yet another slate of blank. Catch it quick before it disappears and it comes together on a page with missing conjunctions and two-dimensional interlocutors.
Just the way I like it (:
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