Purging

You already know.

She’s just there, to your left a bit and back, back behind you and an aisle across. You can see her out of the corner of your eye when she moves a bit and in fact, you can see a lot out of the corner of your eye when something moves a bit, but it’s her your actually watching. Don’t look to the right; avoid looking to the right. You’ll hate to look to the right, as the scenery flashes and blurs together creating some mess of blue green foliage and you simply cannot watch. You feel your temples start to throb if you stare too long, trying to focus your eyes on something that was never meant to be examined. So you don’t; you can see it out of the corner of your eye when you look to the right, but you never do. To the left, one seat behind and across the aisle. The double wide blue cushioned seats swallow her skinny little body up, but you can see her; and when the strand of hair drifts out of place and dances down in front of her eyes, you can see her as she move to wipe it away.

Folded open on her lap, much like a magnet slowly beckoning for her face to slowly rest down upon it, is a bound monster of great strength and power. It’s toying with her, talking sweetly to her, you can tell. You’ve met one of these wicked things before and you know how it calls to you, how it makes you forget who you are if you’ll let it, and how it can send you whipping and whirling off into another dimension, into another universe and time.  Her eyes scarce blink, and remain fixated on the pages that are not quite yellow and not quite white, but a bland in between.

You are jealous.

Everything is white. But not white like a blank hospital white, white with depth, white where some white is darker and some is lighter, and its constant, ever changing. It’s bright like sun and you don’t like to look. I feel my pupils shrink and my temples throb and it hurts. The tendons behind my eyeballs, hidden deep within my eyesockets strain and thus an auburn red is added to the white, shaking and scattered, static and flashing. It feels like it should be black but there is white light everywhere. If you think I’m good wait till I don’t have this mess going on in my head and then watch me go. Watch me do my thing, watch me sharpen my knives on your dull surface. The muscles that surround and protect my brain strain, they ebb and flow and I can feel where their sutured together and clinging to one another tightly. I can feel the strain, the ladderlike webs grabbing onto eachother. And my heart, my heart seems to rise up almost to the surface before my skin beats it back down. It is not red like the color of the blood that pumps through it, but rather baby pink, and blue in the areas where it is working it’s hardest. It is tubes of white and dark purple shadows. 

Elegance

A true portrait of elegance can be seen only in a dancer.

All that strength melts into simply a whim to play and love and feel. 

Found this, wrote it 2 years ago.
An old beau and I have quite the story.
We thought once, we'd write it.
Best seller material, certainly.

Here's what I started.

All is quiet, and all is dark, save for the glow of the vibrant moon leaking in through the windows on either side of the chamber of which a group of privates call home. The weak blue light of the night is aided by the pocket flashlight of the belly-down recruit scribbling words onto paper on his skinny bed in the barrack.

            “Le, I doubt I’ll ever give this to you just like the letters you said you wrote but never sent. Where to start.”

He signs the letter that will never go anywhere “-can’t wait to see your smile again, Bri”

She sat, belly-down, on her queen size bed, complete with pillows for miles and two bedspreads, recounting ever detail of the day, just as she has since the second he left. She wrote in earnest, in honesty – because she knew she would never let him see this journal. It was freeing and relaxing to know that she could finally be honest with someone. Finally let her feelings be released without fear of judgement, consequence or reprimand.

“I’m so lame I’m like obsessive. Once you were actually gone, I’ve never missed or wanted anything so badly in my life.”