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Aug 2012
I have seen death. I’ve flirted with it ever since the day your lips wrapped around that triangle you called your favorite place. Millions of drops flung themselves against your glass, and I wondered if rain was water committing suicide. That sounded so poetic. You came closer, but I ran farther into realizing that if I killed myself, poetic would not describe it. “Expected” is what they would have said. “So tragic” said the kids who never bothered to learn my name. They all told me how you were something that destroyed life. You were a ghost barely visible, but when you passed by everyone’s blood turned cold, giving the whole room stuttered breaths. All those days that you held my waist I thought that I knew what I was doing, but, ****, I was only 15. You were almost done as I dug my nails into my arm hoping no one would notice the scars. After your body collapsed onto my back you turned me over. My whole face was wet, because my tears soaked your pillow that I buried my face into. It felt how the river does in April: not refreshing, but an awful biting; burning pain. I was trembling the way you do when you hear someone has died. Shivering in a cold sweat I vaguely saw you staring at me, and as I opened my eyes, trying to pull my eyelashes apart, you turned your back to step off of the bed. The muscles in your shoulders exposed, and I remembered them a year ago lifting me out of the lake to kiss my face. You pulled something over your hips and glanced back at me again. Then you walked off into the bathroom. And I thought how no one ever imagines these things will happen to them, but there I was, laying on your bedsheets naked and trembling. So this is irony.
Miss Honey
Written by
Miss Honey  California
(California)   
  820
   Jeremy Duff
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