Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
 
I could lay here and listen to you speak for hours.

I could lay here and watch you play for hours.

But there aren't enough hours in the day to admire you.

If there were, I wouldn't hate having to say goodnight.

I would hold on to my truth.

My truth of how I look at you, feel you, want you.

Are there enough hours in the day for you to listen to me speak?

Are there enough hours in the day for you to watch me play?

Do you hate telling me goodnight?

I know your truths.

You could lay there and listen to her speak for hours.

You could lay there and watch her play for hours.

There aren't enough hours in the day for you to admire her.

You hate having to say goodnight to her.

You want to know her truths.

Not mine.
It's 4am and she notices that the streets are empty.
Her night is over.
She picks up her purse and starts stumbling home.

Her five inch heels are making it difficult to walk on the cobble stone road.
Her feet hurt from standing all night that not even the pills in her system can numb the pain.

She pulls out her flask and takes a gulp.
She continues to stumble home, forgetting a baby is waiting for her, begging to be fed.

As she finally arrives to her tin bent door, she sees him. Right on time, waiting for his payment.
She pulls out a couple hundred from her bra, and hands it to his tattoo covered, yellow teeth grinning, tobacco smelling lord.
"You're covered for this one."
She has another night.
She enters her one bedroom house, rips her clothes off, and falls asleep.
The baby is starving.

She wakes up to the baby screaming.
She dresses for the night, gives the baby drops of bourbon,
and heads out for the night.

4am arrives sooner than she expected, she's scared.
She starts stumbling home, again.
She falls, twisting her foot.
She tries to get up, but it's too late.

He's already approaching her.
He usually waits for her at the door.
He's grinning again with his yellow teeth and tobacco breath.
He pulls her hair and starts dragging her away from her house.
She cries. She begs.
She looks at the sky and prays it's over quickly.
She knows she's not making it home today.

Her baby's crying again.
He said "Let's be broken together".
Though those words comforted me for a time, it also showed me he didn't know better.

He could never truly understand the intensity of one's self loath such as mine.

He isn't broken, he's my perfection, my one exception.

Perhaps he's the acceptance I need to open doors that will allow me to self love?

He is not broken.

But he loves me nonetheless.
300* Steps and it's wearing me down.
I keep thinking I'm content but I see it in their eyes; pity.
I can feel it crushing me, and I want to scream and tell them to stop.
I can't seem to make a sound.
Old memories flash into my mind, they're haunting and mocking me.
I can't help smiling.
We were so dark, yet at times so bright.

500 steps and I'm weary, will I ever make it?
My heart aches, and  my soul feels bruised.
But I have to keep going.
The end holds freedom, and a celebratory party.
The light is fading and everything's become hazy.
My wants and needs aren't organized, and my mind is clouded by heartache.
He used to tell me "Question everything, for only the sane settle".
There he is in my mind again, I fear I've gone crazy.

I reach 1,000 steps and I stop.
The sun no longer burns my face, the curious eyes have all wondered off, and it's just the white beauty and I.
Rhythm takes over and I find myself leaping high, waiting for hope to find me.
I spin until I'm dizzy and gasping for breath, and finally-- I can think clearly.
With and without him I've discovered my fate.
I'm back to step one, but this time with a fantasy, and someday a reality.
I will make it to my heaven, three down, and soon all seven.
I know I will end my journey at St. Paul's Bay, and with that thought,
hopelessness is no longer in today.
When I experience something beautiful, I think of you.

When the sun is setting and the shadows of kids playing on swings enter my camera, it reminds me of your life.

I wish I could make you laugh.

When I'm sitting in a coffee shop writing in this notebook and look at the rain drops fall onto the pavement, I think of your happiness.

I wish I could make you happy.

When the leaves fall from trees around me in orange and reds, I think of your dreams.

I wish I could help you chase them.

When snow is barricading us in and I stare into a burning fire, I think of your desires.

I wish I could fulfill them.

But mostly when I blink and take a breath, I think of my love for you--

I wish it was enough.
Let us thrive and lead our souls through a life worth telling about.
N.E
Her eyes have been known to bring men to her knees.

Her lips have been known to cast spells and make everyone weak.

Her laugh has been known to silence a room awaken spirits,
and put demons to sleep.

She's breathtaking, because she's unaware.

Her spirit is light, and wondering, what next will she seek?

She longs to be on her own, she longs to explore, she longs to be spontaneous.

That's how she longs to be seen.

Years of meaningless words and misleading sounds have taught her this;

When it comes to her, she will be the same.

With every year that passes, she will remain the same age.

She will always be that girl offering new girsl pencils in the fifth grade.
Next page