DIR Return Create A Forum - Home
---------------------------------------------------------
MacabreOfWriting
HTML https://macabreofwriting.createaforum.com
---------------------------------------------------------
*****************************************************
DIR Return to: One on Ones.
*****************************************************
#Post#: 406548--------------------------------------------------
The Apartment.
By: Brina Date: March 27, 2016, 9:20 pm
---------------------------------------------------------
His room: Half closed blinds and white laced curtains cover the
windows allowing only the slightest leak of light to enter. The
windows are closed, leaving me to suffocate quietly in my own
demise; he liked it better this way, with the windows closed.
Haze from my cigarettes blurs the room and shields me from the
stalactite looking popcorn ceiling that I fear stretches towards
me every day I continue to stay here. One day I think they will
stab me. Used cigarettes litter the ground and the residue of
ash flakes around me like a burial ground. With squinted eyes I
exhale another flume of smoke, tensing my lips in a tight ‘o’,
trying to get some sort of formation. His sheets are a cold,
uninviting sea and goosebumps cause the hair on my body to stand
at attention.
My body: Once warm. I used to be the flame to his chill. My
fingerprints made impermanent impressions on his skin when
tracing my fingers over his pale body. My lips caused a shiver
to run down his spine, especially when I gently kissed the crook
on his neck before curling against his body. My words made him
do that half grin that stole my heart before he would laugh.
Now: My hair lays limp around me, dull and half alive. My form
is a corpse on his bed, an arm resting above my head and my legs
splayed like a broken doll. My stomach is past gnawing for
hunger and is simply a heavy weight in my abdomen, burdening me
further into the sheets. The only movement I make is bringing
the chain of cigarettes occasionally to my lips. Sometimes I
grab my phone watch the video of him that his new girlfriend
posted; Him and his new lover, and her son that he considers his
own. I’ve learned to tune them out I listen to his voice and his
laugh and close my eyes. His voice is the only sound that breaks
my otherwise perpetual silence.
A few stuffed animals cower in the corner of the room, reminding
me that this wasn’t always his. It wasn’t always his room, it
wasn’t always his sheets, my body wasn’t always his, nor was my
heart. But in the five years together, somehow, I know now, I
gave him everything. Everything. In my museum of memories his
portrait resides in the center and I try to light a match to it
but only the sides singe.
He drifted away, like a sailor of sorts, with a heart set on new
adventures. Months would go by and their length would steadily
increase, and I would tell myself he would return. And he would
eventually. I would say I wasn’t waiting for him. And I
wouldn’t. My mother told me once that I had a large heart, but I
think that my heart is small. Now that it is gone I am pure
wilderness, and whenever I see his lover in that video I am
anger. I am anger and wilderness. This time he isn't returning.
I am molecular and if I open the window I will drift away.
The Surgeon General says there is 250 reasons why I should leave
but I already am the rot and darkness that is inescapable.
#Post#: 406570--------------------------------------------------
Re: The Apartment.
By: Brina Date: April 4, 2016, 1:48 am
---------------------------------------------------------
• The Rooftop •
I manage my way to the rooftop one afternoon, resurrecting
myself from the bed, after countless days pass. It doesn’t
matter how many. My fingers scale the wooden rail that leads to
the roof, my pointer and middle finger used to dance up this
rail mimicking my internal excitement to watch the stars with
you. To watch the city. To see the world together, in each
other’s arms. Safe. Today a splinter imbeds itself in my pointer
finger and I curse, cradling my hand to my chest.
Outside: The sunset breaks through the formidable gray clouds
casting me in a spotlight. Below, crowds of people drift along,
gilded, the sun kisses them goodbye. Soon afterwards the clouds
shroud the world in darkness.
The roof is plain and flat. A few half-dead plants lay scattered
limply, silently begging me to take them inside. They aren’t
welcome here anymore, I pretend they are you. I find a sick
enjoyment in seeing their suffering. Death has begun to take
them over, the browning signs beginning at the tips of their
leaves, and then they begin to tilt to one side. Finally, they
will shrivel in upon themselves until one day the wind will
carry their broken remains to the street below. Good.
Standing at the edge of the rooftop I hold my arms open in a
trust fall with the wind. Lore says that a bird freed from her
cage will fly, but I stay rooted to the ground. Closing my eyes
I tilt my head up to the sky. In answer, the clouds to begin to
cry upon me, softly at first. Then: an all-encompassing,
all-soaking shower.
I am crying too. I am screaming your name. Stop. Stay. A thunder
crack covers my voice and now the crowd below runs in fear. Fear
of the wet, fear of the lightning. I am unheard. Stay. Stay.
Stay. I wish I was the thunder and I wish that you could hear
me, but you are protecting her in your arms: your new songbird
that you have caged and swallowed the key for.
I step away from the edge of the roof because the wind does not
push me hard enough; the gods have decided my fate. For today,
at least. I curl into a ball and overlook the dreary city that I
once was in wanderlust with and contemplate how I can love and
hate someone so vividly. In the downpour my phoenix-heart
extinguishes and I don’t move for hours.
An excerpt from Elizabeth Bishop's "One Art"
"I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster,
some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent.
I miss them, but it wasn’t a disaster.
—Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture
I love) I shan’t have lied. It’s evident
the art of losing’s not too hard to master
though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster."
#Post#: 407703--------------------------------------------------
Re: The Apartment.
By: Brina Date: November 12, 2016, 11:52 pm
---------------------------------------------------------
(Working on a continuation of this piece for school tings. This
is a rough draft addition, but I need somewhere to put it)
We met when I fell asleep in a museum on a chilly February day.
I had been sitting in front of a Monet piece of which I do not
recall the name; I imagined sitting on the edge of the shore, I
could hear the waves and feel the slight mist rise above the
rocky ledge, feel the wind kissing my cheeks and brushing
through my hair just as the painting encapsulated. I closed my
eyes and was awakened to a man standing over me asking, “Are you
okay?”
His eyes were blue with flecks of green in them, somehow
reminiscent to the painting behind him. His eyes were strikingly
bright, as though permanently edited with some digital
processor. He had dimples that made an appearance at his
slightest smirk, and most interestingly, a spider web tattoo on
the side of his neck that stretched onto the lower part of his
jaw. Typically, my immediate reaction of someone like him would
be arresting, my mind would scream “danger”, I would cross the
other side of the road, maybe I would run; in my vulnerable
position I had nowhere to go.
“Hello? Are you okay?” A smirk, a slight crinkle at the edge of
his eyes. He was intriguingly beautiful with a dapple of
freckles speckling his nose and half-moons beneath his eyes
indicating a few too many late nights.
“I’m fine” I croaked, clearing my throat, embarrassed. I felt my
face warm, could feel my heart beating just a bit faster. “Yeah,
I was just looking at that painting.” I stammered, pointing to
the painting so that he would take his gaze off of me. He
followed my finger and in that time of freedom I took a deep
breath, my lungs felt as though they had not experienced air in
a matter of minutes; perhaps they hadn’t.
“Ahh, I saw you admiring this painting to the fullest extent.” A
laugh this time, genuine and hearty. The noise coiled around me
before echoing through the otherwise quiet museum. “I’m Blaze.”
I hardly believed his name was Blaze; that was a name made for
something fictional, otherworldly. I didn’t tell him though.
Instead I introduced myself and he went on to tell me that he
came to the museum for inspiration in his writing. You know in
the moment that someone enters your life sometimes that they
will either crash the ship of your being into an iceberg or will
help you travel to your final destination.
*****************************************************