Dear Sores,

for the millionth time in the past couple of weeks, I wish I could stop scratching. The scabs are yet tender, and I can’t seem to leave them alone. What lies beneath their fragility is much more vivid than what I have to face now… and I can’t really bring myself to accept the fact that soon, they will dry and eventually scar.
There is not a damn thing I can do about it.
A part of me appreciates the faint stabs of pain you cause. Even when my eyes roam elsewhere, I know you are still with me. It is a somewhat comforting reminder of the depth of my feelings. After all, I found I am still human. For that, I am grateful.

Nevertheless I would ask of you to help me still my hands by muting your sometimes fierce and fiery tongues – because we both know, it will be for the better… in the end. You were never meant to stay.
Let’s both be brave and get this over with. I know you can do it.
And so can I.

Sincerely,
the Recovering

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The Long Hours

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She had ribbons in her hair. Purple velvet, nested in a sea of auburn. Small amethyst beads on her neck sparkled softly in the lantern light, complimenting her radiant smile. Her dress billowed and swirled as she danced to the sole violin’s tune, her breathless laughter the sweetest music in his ears. They fell in love beneath the stars; and love, in all its forms, guided them throughout the years, until auburn turned gray, turned white.
When she left, his heart went with her.

On this November day, there is no warmth left in the sun. He gently touches the amethyst necklace, carefully placed on the wooden chair next to his. The tea in his tin cup has long gone cold. Trees shed their leaves in gusts of autumn wind, and his Longing counts the hours, until they meet again.

(140 words)

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Written for VisDare26: Engraved – 150 words or less. Grab a pen and join the fun!
photo credits: graphicmania.net

Six Days

On the seventh day, he woke to the sting of tears, panting.

The image of her perfect, pouty lips as she had flung those horrid words at him remained etched in his mind; not even the unexpected, yet dreadful gift of a few hours of sleep could keep his thoughts from going back.

Six days.
It still tore at his guts.

Drenched in sweat, wiping the tears from his cheeks while reminding himself to Be A Man, he looked around the room, bleary-eyed. The pillow to his right was abandoned, the blanket crumpled and on the floor. The girl, last night’s ‘bump & grind accomplice’, seemed to have fled the building, along with his watch and wallet, which he remembered to have put on his nightstand a couple of hours ago.

Shit.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
What was her name again? Sarah? Sandra? Oh, hell…

With a grunt, he sat up. He could still taste WhatsHerName on his tongue; the faint, yet lingering stench of cigarette smoke and cheap perfume completed the mental image of her – writhing underneath him. Wincing, he pinched the bridge of his nose, hopelessly trying to keep last night’s memories from conquering his mind. The first tendrils of a splitting headache licked at his temples, a perfectly infuriating addition to the already painfully present mix of guilt and shame.

Six days.

Absent-mindedly, he reached for the half-emptied, half-forgotten beer bottle on the floor and took a hearty swig. Stale and disgusting – but it would have to do, until he could get his legs to do his bidding and carry him over to the fridge.

It had been six days since She had left him.
Six days since the words, “I never want to see you again.” had sprung from her lips and driven their dagger-shaped intent into his heart.
Six days since his heart had been cremated.
Six days… since he had buried her remains a little way off the beautiful riverbed of Camlyn’s Creek; the exact spot where they had made love for the first time.

He stared at his trembling fingers, still clutching the beer bottle, and felt his stomach convulse.

Her words would haunt him forever.
She would haunt him forever.
That, he was sure of.

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photo credits: favim.com

A Craptastic Holiday

RadarNelson (Rob) over at ‘Seasons of Insanity‘ invited me to his table and asked me to be his Guest-Blogger. Go check out his site – his unique style of writing (and swearing) always makes me smile… Thank you for the opportunity, Rob! Much appreciated!

… and for those too lazy to click, here’s what I came up with:

Once upon a time, there was a guy named Valentinus.
He lived in the days of the Roman Empire and was imprisoned for ministering to Christians (who were persecuted under the Romans) and performing weddings for soldiers who were forbidden to marry. Before his execution, he is said to have healed his jailer’s daughter and wrote “From your Valentine” as a farewell to her. Of course, they sent him to the afterlife.
What a happy little story.

Be honest – have you ever thought about the origins of Valentine’s Day? If you have, I suppose you’re one in a million.

8 Money Maker_WebI know it’s still a little early, but Valentine’s Day has been on my mind lately… or rather the annoyance (brewing inside of me) that comes along with it. I never understood what this particular day has to do with love and affection – it is simply about money.
Every year on February 14th, to the sound of money rolling in, big company bosses all around the globe relax in their leather chairs with a victorious glass of Cognac, laugh heartily and slap their bellies because we buy all the specially manufactured stuff made to prove our love to each other. Why not put a price tag on love? It is a great idea, brilliant in its simplicity.

We all know the scenario. Desperate men running through the streets, hoping to buy anything, that might tame the ‘Valentine’s Day Monster’ they have at home – and God forbid they don’t find a suitable present or forget to bring one altogether! One minute you’ve got a supposedly loving girl by your side, the next you’re sitting out on the curb while your clothes rain down on you in a colorful shower to the soundtrack of her “hysterical symphony”.
What a great day.
Love is in the fucking air.

-holy-crap-talking-hearts--1We, as a race, are stupid.
I am convinced.
Money still rules our planet and we even let it interfere with our love life.
How sad is this?

What is it that makes us feel the need to prove our love to each other on this “special” day?
Are we so insecure that we have to experience love in a materialistic way?
Are we so insecure that we have to reduce our relationships to the experience of superficial perfection in a certain time frame?

If materialism is what love gets reduced to nowadays, I will call myself a rebel and gladly boycott the unspoken rules of today’s “loving” society. Hopefully, I will not be alone.

I refuse to put a price tag on love.
I refuse to be told when and how I have to tell my loved ones that I do, indeed, love them.
On Valentine’s Day, I will not spend a single dime on anything supposedly ‘love-related’.
It’s fun and relaxing… come join me.

Side Note for the Girls:
If you still feel like celebrating your love on February 14th, at least get your man a six-pack of beer and some bedroom action – after all, he’s been sweating all day to please your loving needs.

That said:
everything

We’re Sisters, aren’t we?!

“Everyone thinks we’re sisters!”, you say and smile brightly at the woman who just asked if we were. “We’re mother and daughter, actually, but yes, we are like sisters.”
You brush your hair back from your face and beam at her.

I do not smile.
Every time you say this, I want to shake you.

Oh, don’t get me wrong; it’s not because you’re older than me, in case you think that, it’s because you are… my mother.
My.
Mother.
And I need you to be just that.

I already have a sister, I don’t need another one.
I need my mother.
My mom.

I am your child.
I tried to explain this to you once… tried to explain, that I would love nothing more than to feel like I am your child – just for a little while.
I guess it landed on deaf ears.
You consider me equal.
You ask me to make decisions for you.
You ask me for counsel.
You rely on me.

After all these years, you still have no idea what I need. I love you dearly – you know I do – but sometimes, I wish I could just be the little girl… and curl up in your arms. I wish I could lean on you for a while – feel you comforting me.
I never had that… and you know it, too.
I grew up way too fast, had no choice but to become a woman… independent, tough… and sometimes hard – mostly on myself.

The little girl in me is still there – and she still needs you to care for her. She will always be there.
Maybe, if you could see things from my perspective, you would understand.

I miss you, mom.
I never had you… and I doubt, I ever will.

The little girl in me though… she will never stop hoping.

mary’s smile

he was dying and he knew it.
he was imagining things, truly a bad sign.

not enough oxygen left to keep the brain functioning.

he tried to calm himself, to keep his breathing shallow.

whatever you do, do not hyperventilate. do not hyperventilate.

Mary.
Mary on barbecue-sunday with a purple flower in her hair, smiling the smile of a thousand suns. how beautiful she looked in her thin dress, flapping in the light breeze, outlining her slender frame.
his woman.
she laughed and pointed towards the cooler, told him to ‘go, have a treat’.
he licked his lips.

beer.
ice-cold.
pearly water droplets ran down the tinted glass of a dozen bottles – fleeing the hot sun beating down on them… heading for the cooler; more inviting touch of the ice cubes below. the air smelled of burgers, slowly grilling. he could hear the meat juice drip onto the coals, leaving hisses trailing through the air, announcing their surrender to heat.
mmmh perfect.
his mouth started to water.

he opened his eyes.
darkness.

the flashlight they had granted him had given out a while ago.
how long ago, he could not tell.
minutes?
hours?
days?
he couldn’t remember.
he could hear the quiet ticking of his wristwatch.

how ironic. the one time you remember to put it on.

he licked his lips again, grateful for the bit of moisture his brief escape had given him. thirst gnawed at him, but he tried his best to ignore it.
his brief escape.
there was no escape for his body… but they would not imprison his mind.

he felt the cold creeping through the wooden box surrounding him. imprisoning him.
dry earth.
he was sure of it.

he had screamed his lungs out for what seemed like days; until his throat was raw and dry, until he could scream no more.
no answer.

his kicking and thrashing hadn’t done him any good neither, he had tried… until his hands and feet were bloody and bruised. other than the occasional trickling of dust and dirt, he hadn’t accomplished a thing.

he had cried.
how much he had cried.
he had panicked.
he had kicked and thrashed some more.
… he had cried some more.

that had been then… when he still had hope left.

he had given up.
there was no escaping his prison… his box in the ground.
he would die here.
lost and alone.

it didn’t matter anymore.
nothing mattered.
not thirst, not hunger, not longing.
nothing mattered.

his memories… were all he had left.
he embraced them with his soul.

he yawned, didn’t deny himself the deep breath that came with it.

so tired now. so tired…

darkness surrounded him, crowded his eyes, made his skin crawl.

so tired.

he would go to her.
he would close his eyes and see her. see her smile again.
smile…
just for him.

i love you, baby.

he closed his eyes and went to sleep.
he dreamed of her face…

he never woke again.

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inspired by the movie “Buried”. if you’re claustrophobic, do not watch it.

photo credits: orlund.com