your words spew out like lava from a volcano and i'm amidst the scalding spray of molten anger. they hit me and i'm in immense pain, not from the heat but from the realization that these burns will never heal. but i thank you, because i will forever have(more) these biological reminders to tell me to always be true.(less)
Candice rolled her eyes as soon as I entered Java Hut.
I knew what she was thinking- I found another straggler. And so I had. I don't know why I decided to bring him. Maybe it was pity, but mostly it was because he amused me.
I sat dow(more)n at the table without ordering anything while Andy went to the counter to look at the selection.
"Where did you find this one?" she asked, her eyes flicking in his direction.
"The DART station. You'll get a kick out of him. He thinks he's two-thousand years old. A real romantic."
"You have a real serious problem."
I knew this to be true. But out of my large assortment of carnie-worthy friends, Candice was right on top. I wondered what that said for her.
"What?" I said, pretending offence.
"One day, you're going to pick up an axe murderer."
"They all say that, but who seriously murders anyone with an axe these days?"
"Your mom would die."
"My mom named me Greta for Christ's sake. Her decision making is questionable at best. We're not even German, or Swedish, or whatever."
"You're not /dating/ him are you?"
"Are you kidding me?"
Andy came over and stood at the end of the table, slurping on some frozen coffee monstrosity. "Hi."
Candice's eyes lingered on his artfully curled mustache. I couldn't say I blamed her. It was quite captivating, the way it bobbed up and down when he talked.
I could tell she wanted to explode. Candice was a neat freak and body hair grossed her out, particularly facial hair. Her nose twitched at the corner.
"Candice this is Andy. Andy... Candice."
"You're very beautiful, Candice."
"See," I said gleefully. "I told you he was a romantic."
Now I remembered why I brought him.(less)
how nice it would be
to be true to you, mother
and tell you that which i've kept hidden:
for what seems like a lifetime,
i have kept a small cat in my room
and those are not the floorboard squeaks,
(more) but his cries for freedom(less)
"It takes all I can muster to write this to you," I scribbled into the diary with the voraciousness of a madman lost into the depths of his own psychosis.
"For you, I risk it. I risk my own well-being to relay this tale to you so that you(more) may diverge from this path. Though, it seems we are all on it, careening to this devastating end propelled by our own volition with the understanding that it will all end up different."
I pushed my fingers through my hair, gripping each follicle as though I were about to fall away from my own scalp. They'd find the diary. Oh yes, yes they would. Then they would understand.
"Read this and burn it. Know the tale, and forget its circumstance. Remember me for my essence, not for my actions."
I wrote long into the night, the candles burned low and the first rays of sun began to peer over the roofs of the closely packed houses along Esther Street bathing the eastern side in an otherworldly glow. I laid down my pen and looked over my good work, my last work. Even now I could feel their dark eyes on me, their fingers lashing around my spine pulling me further and further away.
I turned to the window, the still street below appeared in a clarity I could scarce remember in these days. As I dropped from the sill, the faintest remnants of a smile crossed my face. It was the wind that carried me down at last, its gentle hands guiding to me towards my self-written fate. They understood my plight, as all who read would soon understand; they knew what haunted my footsteps.