Sickening

My skin tingled as it cooled. He stood beside my bed, his shadow falling across my midsection as he shrugged into the shirt I’d hastily snatched from his body hours ago. “This isn’t working out,” he said. “This?” “Yeah,” he replied, “this. Us. We. It’s not working for me anymore.” I grunted, choosing not to speak than to spew the acidic words I was feeling. I sat up, pulling the sheet to cover my bare breasts. Some part of me would not allow me to be dismissed from his life while lying naked in the afterglow he’d created. I felt the warmth draining out of me. I climbed out of the bed, both irate and unsure of what to do now that I stood before him. Our juices trickled down my thighs, causing the sheet to stick to the intimate crevices he’d so ardently caressed moments before. A thrill ran down my spine, my attraction to him nearly overpowering my growing disgust. “What is it that suddenly isn’t working, Brian?” His gaze went blank, as it always did when he was confronted. His face was absolutely still; he didn’t attempt to look like he was thinking of an answer. He just shook his head and turned away. I felt something inside me deflate. Suddenly I felt wretched and cheap. I imagined this moment painted. A woman, clutching a sheet to her breasts, standing in the shadow of a man who no longer wanted her. Her face dejected as he gave her his back. Her shoulders trembling in an effort not to slump. The woman I imagined was me, and she was sickening. 

Things He Love(d)

He loved her lips. Truly, the credit was due to her mouth, although her lips were nothing to discount. He was fascinated by the constant motion. He would see her, sitting or standing utterly still and there it would be. A glimmer of action on her face. It made him smile just to think of it. He wondered if she knew she was doing it. No, he decided, definitely not.

He’d been so immersed in watching her mouth that he had only half-heard what she was saying. He watched as she paused and applied gloss to her lips. He laughed, poking gentle fun at her to cover his affection. “Now why would you need to make your lips stand out more?” He knew he certainly didn’t need any more excuses to look at them. She smirked, the corner of her mouth adding a curious twitch that intrigued him. “Boy, please,” she laughed, “you can look away if you have a problem with it.” It was as if she was reading his mind.

He eyed the beauty mark on her upper lip and fought the urge to run the pad of his thumb across it. Her silence marked the wait for a question he’d never heard. She shook her head, amused at his distractedness tonight. He was usually an avid listener, a pretend-reluctant participant in their roundabout conversations. He focused himself, really listened to what she was saying. He loved this game. He’d charm laughs out of her, waiting for his name, mingled with mirth roll from her tongue. Her eyes would sparkle in such a way that he had not recalled ever seeing before, piquing his curiosity to learn how deep the sparkle went.

Battle

I've been fighting a war I can't win. Fighting a memory of something that used to be, oh, so sweet.
To call this memory precious now would be a lie, as it only plagues me. It drags me down into the depths of confusion and despair.
My focus is on getting angry, staying angry, hoping that my anger will burn all remnants of my thoughts, feelings, memories.
So focused am I, that I'm suddenly unfocused. Blurred hindsight, bleary insight, no foresight.
What am I really fighting for?

"I will spend the rest of my life mourning someone who isn't dead. I will die considering my life unfulfilled due to a single moment."

Untitled

Her position was a strange one. When she thought about it, it was where she'd always been. She was popular, but somehow not. When she accepted an invitation others seemed glad to see her. But when she declined, she was not missed. It had always been that way. Co-workers, friends, even family. She'd resigned herself to this position, telling herself that it didn't matter. But in what had started as the smallest way, it mattered. And finally, it had come to matter very much.
But something paralyzed her. She found it unthinkable to ask how she'd come to this position. Frankly, she didn't even know how to formulate the question, let alone who to ask.
She felt an inexplicable emptiness and frequently took little social breaks, isolating as much as possible without causing alarm. Her closest friends began recognizing the breaks, welcoming her back with, "Been on intermission?" She was grateful for their acknowledgement, even if they didn't quite understand.

Confessions of a Neglecting Soul

Dear IKTTtBT:

Please forgive me. I know I spent forever hemming and hawing before deciding to commit to you. And even after the commitment, I've wandered back to the sweet pleasure of a notebook propped on my knees, the scratch of a pen against a blank page, the slightly sweet scent of ink as I vigorously pour out my thoughts. Despite my indiscretions, I do love you. Please believe it. You allow me to share with strangers and loved ones without begging attention. Let's try again; I know I can do better. You won't regret this- I promise.

Love,

D