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Life of a Writer
A dish crashes, hard flesh smacks against softer flesh, as the sun dips below the horizon,
“I HATE YOU!”
I begin to cry, pulling my legs to my chest – this goes on every night, as I’m forced to listen.
There is no escape – no escape but…
My window is cracked, the overgrown tree waves in the nighttime wind
But I won’t do that. I can’t do that. Not today.
I cry, my salty tears falling on my lips so that I taste them: I can’t do this any longer.
In the corner by my door is a girl with red-tinted hair, and a welcoming smile on her face.
“I have a story for you to tell.”
The Recipe to a Writer
Sunk into a couch,
The latest radio hit blaring in my ears,
The bitter, sour, and yet satisfying taste of lemonade waiting in a cool can,
A primped blanket tossed carelessly over my legs,
The room is lit with a warm, orange glow,
Full of the welcoming emotions of new home.
A black ball of fluff hops up to sit next to me,
Cuddles into my leg and purrs,
Begging for some sort of attention.
Turning my music up another decibal, feeling the bitter taste on my tongue, and stroking my cat
two more times, I feel ready to satiate the need of words on a white digital paper.
A boy waves,
“You’ve met me before,” he says, a sparkle in his blue eyes.
I smile at him, nodding. “I know.”
I’ve met him often – again and again on the multitudes of blank papers I’ve soiled with words.
“Why are you here?”
The boy laughs, lounging back on a street curb I’ve dreamt up for him.
“You know – don’t you? You’ve used me often enough: look at the date, why don’t you?”
I turn to a scrolling New York billboard – the news bulletin scrolling quicker and quicker until it
gets to what I want.
“Ah. Nine eleven. I’m sure you know what you’ll be going through then.”
The boy’s face sets seriously, decieving his carelessy tousled hair. “I’m going to die.”
A hot drop of water falls from my eye, not wanting to accept this simple fact:
“Yes. You’re going to die.”