"Mad Girl's Love Song."

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It’s intriguing how very simple and intricate illusions can be. When I said I didn’t want you it was the blackest form of blasphemy. Sometimes I wished you would just walk away, but then I threw away that naïve thought because my capricious heart in its youth refused to beat unless you were here. So I asked you to stay baby, to keep my heart beating, and you swore to me you’d never leave.

Now all I do is feel. I feel … I feel you. But you’re not here with me, are you? No, you’ve been gone for a long time now. . Your touch haunts me because it doesn’t exist. You abandoned me, left me here alone with nothing but my memories, which even now are fading away to nothing more than whispers; whispers I hear over and over, taunting me and reminding me always that you are only a lost cause. I wanted to run away with you, but you left me before I could react.

Some days I begin to think I made you up inside my head. You’re not real, how can you be? You never returned to me the way you said you would. Maybe you’re just some little figment of my imagination that I made up as a child. Maybe you’re just some silly fantasy from my schoolgirl days, and as I grew older I suppose I must have stopped playing the game of you. But then again, how could something that isn’t real hurt so good? This pain you’ve placed inside of me is here to stay. I blame myself for everything though. How can I blame you when I don’t even remember your face, let alone your name?

You are nothing more than a blank page in the depths of my mind. The most important details have been cut away, placed into a box for perhaps a rainy day. What’s left of you I mold, fashioning it into whatever form I desire, making you my own creation once again until I’m satisfied with the image I see. I go over you again and again in my mind, the desperation in me growing stronger each day as I try to decipher whether or not you are real. I’m taking ink in massive doses and watching as blank pages turn black while my hand and head double team my heart.





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