c0r41ini
They were good sports about it; they joked, they laughed, they poked fun at themselves, but underneath, they were trying hard not to break down and fall into salty tears and self loathing heaps.
It washed down the drain and landed somewhere far below her with a loud (thunk). The echoes faded away in a terrible feeling of finality- dread.
It was the fourth edition of his novel, and yet he still wasn't pleased. He'd stayed up all last night, trying to get that one sentence on page five hundred-twenty-three right, but it just wouldn't work. He couldn't make the words "ornamental" and "tree" work together without it sounding like Christmas. But, no matter how many times he checked the dictionary, he couldn't find anything else to work.
They were simple whimsicalities, but,
at the end of the day, they were what
truly kept her going,
what kept her teeth in her smile
and the laughlines in her face,
what made life worth living and loving and laughing at.
She was awake,
alive and truly THERE
for the first time she could remember
in a long, long time.
Everything seemed so much brighter
than her memories, so much softer,
so much more colorful and... real.
Sobriety was something new,
something she’d forgotten how to do,
but so far, it was better than a high.
They covered her skin like a map of hurt and pain and memories she wish she could wipe from her mind. They were all of varying colors, pinks and red and blues, and the occasional yellows and greens, though those were usually covered by new ones. She got used to the pain, the pulling and pushing and hurting sensations that sent her nerves screaming and raging towards the brain whenever she moved.
Blotches of ink covered his hands. He'd been writing all night, but the ferocity in his face had slowly dimmed as the sun rose, and the shadows faded into gold. He had worked his hands sore, and yet he had nothing for it. For that was what covered the letter he was to send her: nothing.
Her heart was ragged; it had been torn, it was worn, it was frayed around the edges. It had broken countless times, and she had only managed to patch it up occasionally, and sometimes there were more tourniquets than stitches. Now the stitches seemed to be loosening, to be coming undone, despite her nimble fingers, and she didn't know what to do...
You were never there for me. You didn't hold me up above the crowd, you didn't even care if I was trampled by the crowd; my dreams and hopes never mattered to you. I didn't matter to you. You let me stay in your house for a while, occasionally eat your food, and if I was lucky, call me daughter every once in a while. But it was wasn't until I actually made something of myself that you gave me credence.
She was a respectable girl. She really was. Her parents were quite wealthy, she always dressed modestly... she worked hard to be respectable. The problem was, she didn't want to be any longer. She wanted to run and dance, and play in the mud where it was fun. She was tired of people with their noses in the air, making her learn her letters and
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