Blory #77

My Name is Charlotte

“Forgive me,” Henry said, “It was just that the light…” He trailed off wondering why he could never find the right words. The gaps in vocabulary always frustrated him and though he had dedicated days searching the dictionary for better substitutes for love, pity, concern, and even fear, he had found none that captured the complexities of the emotions within his breast.

The woman studied his face. She knew it was no accident that she had stumbled into his barn the night before. That she had traveled so far to seek shelter. Now, she realized, she had been searching for someone. But this was not the man she expected to find.

Seeing her face relax again, Henry once again tried to master his discomfort.

“What’s your name,” he asked, quietly.

“Elizabeth,” the woman said. “My name is Elizabeth.”



Today I pressed my hands to the nape of my neck, pulling away to find them trembling and sticky with heat.
Looking up to fine
Your eyes falling on me,
and, perhaps, a bit unsure.
Your lips curled into that all too familiar smile.
Tilted to one side,
Head thrown back slightly.
I laughed.
It occurred to me then,
How simple it had been, then.
Eyes tilted down,
Head to the side, I allowed myself to be consumed with the noise.
Our lives had shifted;
Out hearts were different.
And yet,
There is still a sense of security,
We may never be what we were, but
Or alone,
Will be what we have always been.

What keeps you up at night?

cigarettes and hand warmers,
the taste of his lips,
the feeling of hands against my throat,
the last sip of vodka he wipes from his lips,
that girl that he might just kiss.
he tells me he gave up on trying to convince me to get better
but i can’t remember a time he’s ever tried

unread texts and received messenger messages
the unconscious worry of my dad’s suicide attempts
the drugs my brother might try, his friend’s destroyed mind
the abuse my mother doesn’t see in her fiancee’s eyes

atmospheric collapse, the inevitable end of my life
global warming and my friend’s self-hatred, I
can’t find the words to help, “get help.”

he told me one night that it was just a cut,
that he didn’t have to be around, that he’d rather die
that nobody would see the scars, that nobody would mind
‘this message could not be delivered, account removed’

—  he told me he could never trust me again, now he’s gone.
being awriter who reads too much is scary because sometimes you read this amazing book and you convince yourself that you could never write so well. you could not top it and then you stop trying because the book you were wriying is never going to be good enough. it can never ve better than what you read.
—  me, thinking about the reason i am scared to start writing