Dear Weekend,

once upon a time, we were friends.
I don’t even recall when this changed, but when I think back, it seems, you’ve been such a traitorous bitch for the past couple of months. It is probably my fault, so I should apologize for calling you names, but damn… I am mad at you.
I long for you, week after week. Welcome you with open arms when you arrive, always hoping we can go back to the way we were. But every single time it bites me in the ass. When there is nothing left to clean, nothing left to rearrange, vacuum, restock, scrub or build, you leave me alone. Utterly alone. Once, we used to enjoy our time together. Now, when there’s nothing left to do, you leave me all alone with my thoughts – and wow, this is still such a painful experience. I never thought I would say this, but when you’re here, and I have “endured” your presence for more than a day, I long for Monday to come and sweep me away. Keep me busy… keep me away from painful memories, that haunt me (for the time being).

I didn’t mean to call you names. I didn’t mean to sound rude. I am just so disappointed that you and I don’t work out anymore – when I just know how much I really need you.
I hope this period of time will be a short one… and that we will learn to spend time with each other again.
I miss you. Very much.

Faithfully,
The Involuntary Thinker

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

Dear Day,

I assume you think it’s fashionable to consist of nothing more than 24 hours.

Have you ever considered a prolonged visit? Perhaps 30-32 hours would be more fitting and might even underline your qualities in a more beneficial way – plus it would give us time to tend to things that really matter.
Less isn’t always more.
Sometimes I wish you would rethink your methods and grace us with your presence a little longer than deemed necessary.

I would ask of you to think about it.
Should you be willing to consider my request, I would be more than happy to schedule a meeting with the Sun and Moon to discuss cycles. I am positive we could come to a satisfactory conclusion for all parties involved.
Thank you for your time – I know it is precious.

Sincerely,
the Rushed

A Thin Line

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Mother once told me to be a symphony.

Back then, I did not understand why she deemed those words important, yet the intensity of her green-eyed gaze, as she said them, stayed with me throughout the years.
Since that day, I have made decisions that caused me to stumble; decisions that brought me to the brink of the abyss – daring me to take another step. I have made decisions that elevated me; lifted my true Self higher than I could have ever imagined.
It is a challenge to not get addicted to extremes – they singe your insides with bittersweet intensity, leave you wanting more. It takes courage to not lose oneself in the process of finding purpose.

Today, I walk the thin line between black and white, careful to tread lightly.
Today, I take life’s chords and arrange them to inner harmony.

Today, I am a symphony.

(147 words)

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Written for VisDare 25: Precarious – 150 words or less.
photo credits: media-cache-ec4.pinimg.com

In the Line of Duty

CONTENT WARNING: This piece of writing contains strong language. For mature readers only.

power-of-words
— photo credits: iletaitunepub.net

“There isn’t much left to say between us.

The Keatons, that’s us.
Suburban home, two cars, one mailbox, no children, and one hell of  a mortgage.
My husband mows the lawn on every Saturday.
I tend to the rose bushes.

After being married for nine years, we barely acknowledge each other anymore.
We go through our routines, and hide beneath the perfectly safe shroud of long-term habit.
We function together – but keep apart.

Our weekly exchange of bodily fluids has long since turned methodical; he knows how to push my buttons, and vice versa.
Mediocre, at best.
I come.
He comes.
The ‘Duty-Fuck’… because, hey, we’re supposed to do it, right?

Afterwards, we watch TV.
He snores.
I do, too, sometimes.

There isn’t much left to say between us.

In the mornings, we sip coffee and read the paper. Sports section for him, Home & Culture for me.
In the evenings, we give ourselves over to mind-numbingly stupid TV shows. He hates them as much as I do, but they help to drown out the cacophony.

There isn’t much left to say between us.

I once said, “I do.”
I meant it with all my heart.

My heart must have abandoned me… somewhere, along the way.
Somewhere, between rose bushes and morning coffee.”

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Written for Picture it & Write over at ErmiliaBlog. Grab a pen and join the fun!