Skeletal hands grip a bright red, bleeding, beating heart. A voice, sweet as sugar and cold as December, whispers something in my ear.
"Do you want this heart?"
Fear wraps itself around my soul, squeezing painfully. What were the specifics of this contract again? What was the deal? I tremble and shake like a sapling in the wind.
"Do you want this heart?"
My lips move, but no words come out. Why can't I respond? Those skeletal hands squeeze the heart, eliciting a gasp of pain. Impatient, the voice speaks a little louder.
"Do you want this heart?"
I hear the words for what they are, but for some reason they translate into white noise in m
He is a storm brewing on the horizon;
thundering and grumbling,
while rain drops splatter and fall from his eyes.
She is the sun on a cloudy day
breaking through the clouds
and lifting spirits
with her smiles and charms.
And they, together,
are like two sides of a coin;
coming together and sparking,
creating fire and passion in their wake,
only to fall apart and mourn the loss of what was
and what will never be.
Darling, I am no poet, no great writer.
I am not a wordsmith,
and words do not come easily to me;
they do not pour off my tongue like wine.
But oh my dearest, my darling,
if I only I had the words...
I would spin you a world full of wonderful things,
and forever whisper sweet nothings in your ear.
Had I the words, my sweet,
I could explain to you all of the ways in which I love you,
and simultaneously have no words to express myself with.
But alas my darling,
for I am no poet.
No great writer.
I am not a wordsmith,
and words do not pour off my tongue like free flowing wine.
And all I am left to offer you,
is this poor excuse for a poem
Crash! Something hits the wall in the kitchen, shattering into pieces. Words full of hatred are thrown around carelessly, looking for flesh and dreams to cut into. They're fighting again.
"Shut up you bitch!" The voice is loud, angry and the words are sharp, like the edge of a knife. I cringe as I hear the sound of someone's palm landing on someone else's cheek. Did they really need to fight so much?
Silence. Ears pressed back against my skull, knowing I shouldn't, I slowly slide off my bed and towards my bedroom door. Cautiously I peer out into the kitchen, not sure anymore if it was such a good idea to have chosen this room as my own. So
"Do you remember the day we left Earth?" The question is softly spoken, the speaker hesitant and afraid of the answer.
"Yes." My answer is calm, like I could care less about that dusty rock we left far behind. But I yearn for the green fields of our homeland, I miss watching the cattle and horses graze and the sound of a child's laughter. But that's all behind us now, it is all something that we can't go back to. "What about it?" I ask, my tone gruff as I turn back to my work.
"W-would you tell me about it, please?" I sigh in response and I can feel her cringe behind me. I don't want to talk about this, but... I can't deny her anything. Not
Why?
Why do I even bother trying to explain when it seems like you don’t even care? Why do I bother to keep wishing you would tell me that you love me when I know you’re not going too? Why do I bother getting frustrated when you don’t make any sense at all? Why?
Why do I bother crying over you when you don’t even seem to care anymore?
So many times I’ve cried. Wanting your touch to calm me down. Wanting to hear your voice and hear those words I so dearly need to hear right now. Wanting to stop crying and stop caring just so I can stop hurting.
But I can’t. I hurt. And I cry.
Yes, I wronged you. But I