Σκοτεινή Ηρωίδα

“Maybe we could’ve fallen in love Been more than a late night phone call instead I’m just a girl not the girl you marry not the girl you tell your friends about Maybe we could’ve fallen in love and I could’ve memorized your laugh Instead of the way it feels when we fuck I could’ve memorized every color in your eyes If i didn’t come with the commitment issues If you didn’t look at me the way you do But it doesn’t matter now We are not in love because you Came after the one I thought I’d spend my life with. So you are my late night phone call and I’m not the girl you remember I’m the one you’ll be dying to forget”

“In another time, I free myself from the hands of anxiety wrapped around my neck, and you wear dark purple. Your eyes have a light in them that shouldn’t be possible after all you have seen. In another time, I try not to swallow the words I want to tell you, and I ask you to dance. You say yes, and my heart feels resurrected again. In another time, I leave my windows open while your silhouette sways in the curtains, and we dance and dance and dance as if we have never felt lonely. In another time, I laugh at the thought of regretting the taste of my own words, and we sit in the soft grass while we eat strawberries and your lips are stained so red I compare them to a rose. But in this time, anxiety tightens its grip around my neck, your eyes are searching somewhere else, and you wear dark blue. In this time, I swallow the words I wish I could tell you, and I feel their softness slide down my throat, and I never ask you to dance. In this time, I keep my window locked, and you are nowhere to be found, and my legs are so bruised from all the times I have fallen and I cannot dance. In this time, I regret all the words I never let you taste, and your lips are so pale I wonder if you have ever felt loved, and my heart aches when you tell me how much you hate the taste of strawberries.”

“My english teacher tells the class that we are not our writing, that we must learn to let someone dissect our words without letting it tear us apart. Ernest Hemingway swallows glass for the ninth time this week as he tells us that there is nothing to writing, that all you do is sit down at a typewriter and let yourself bleed. I stuff another gauze down my throat and ask my english teacher how do I stop bleeding? how do I stop losing my blood for words that do not belong to me? and Ernest Hemingway walks in the class and hands me a piece of glass and tells me to swallow it and tell everyone it means nothing.”

“His eyes were storm clouds He barreled through me, over me like a hurricane. His fingers were lighting lashing out all over me. A clap, his thunder shaking me separating my skin from my bones. Split lips and clenched fists. Eyes welded shut, a metallic taste left in my mouth. I am in love with a natural disaster”

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