I didn’t write for the pleasure of others. I wrote to get the poison out. There was a thorn. She cut her long hair. She began to breathe more quietly. She began to keep her eyes half closed. The thorn was stuck. Slowly the blood dripped. And the people around her didn’t notice her fading. Moving slowly up the stairs. The people who weren’t really there didn’t talk at all, they just watched her pushing her life back and forth. The gray window, the green carpet. Trees covered in agony. I didn’t do anything for you to love me. I held you because that’s what hands do. There was a flower. He yelled while she cried. She began to look the other way. She began to pretend not to notice. The flower was dead. Slowly she gave up her hold. There were things far more important than her. Like fame or survival. She was a mistake they kept making. A dead plant in the way. Brass bird, a pretend garden in her head. Fruit and love everywhere. The cry of goats echoed Ma Ma Ma, and she couldn’t do anything. They were locked up tight. The snow was taking over the romance. Clouds came and went. Days passed. She never opened the door. She never went outside. Death was outside the valley now. It was everywhere. She heard crashes in the air. Screams inside her head. Memories of sunshine and hope didn’t survive. It’s her fault. She will never be happy. The people know her childhood was bad. The people who are no longer there, blame the cult she was raised in. Because God destroys. I never wrote to get solace. I wrote for a reason that could be anything. Whatever you do with your mind is up to you. Love is a rare beast. A beast that does not ever die. But destroys the thing it holds. I’m just guessing she’s alone now, in her room. Gazing at the wall and the little dog snoring. She doesn’t yelp in her sleep anymore. No, she is quiet. Her mother meant for her to live forever in paradise. Her mother tried to keep her pure. Her father didn’t do anything but suffer in alcohol and war stories. I knew I killed everyone, deep in his head. Read another story. Is it about me. She doesn’t tell you anything. Her secrets stay hidden. In a vault down below her stomach. You are not that important she tells the mirror in her head. Your words are not that wise. Therefore the people you once ruled are now taking over. I see. I see. The world around me. I am sorry I’m a liar. They say a suffering person must be the most selfish of all. I cast stones for fun. It’s morbid. I am serene. She doesn’t need him to listen. He’s just like her after all. Half man. Half beast. Deaf and destructive. Will God come and finish the job. Nobody goes home without me. His arms don’t stretch that far. Truly she’s not that sexy anymore. Yes, I am alone. I write at myself like tomorrow is the pain for today. A new morning will come if I let it. The night holds its valor. I am the truth of what I’ve become. She can talk about grief and self sabotage. She can ride the magic carpet all over this God forsaken land. He will never find her. There is no bird that will sing her name. He will not follow the ache.
I write to free the crazy one. I don’t know you and I don’t care. I talk to make noise. I am really not the only one looking for food. She’s dying. She’s dying. Open your wings.