Wednesday, July 20, 2011
Saturday, July 16, 2011
Thursday, July 14, 2011
She smells like vanilla lace. For remembering her smell, you’ll slowly remember her characteristics. Her dry, dark hair that flows up to her clavicles and her fringes that entirely covers her eyes. Then you remembered her face. Her almond-shaped eyes, and those dark circles underneath it. Her cute nose, chubby cheeks, and round-shaped chin. Oh god, you almost forgot the scar that was resting above her chin. That dark scar that obviously represents her restlessness and how she couldn’t take the once forming zit on it so she decided to pop it. And finally, you remember her soft, small lips. The lips that once explored your being.
You could still smell the vanilla lace, and while that drowns your veins your mind runs through the memory of her body. Her small, but nicely-shaped breasts and the baby fats that were unmistakeably forming on her tummy lingers on your fickle brain. Her long, perfect legs are now on the view too. And you are going crazy with the idea that you once had her. Once touched her. Once tasted her.
How could you let her go? How could you let go the happiness, the sadness, the craziness, and the lies? How could you let go the comfortably quiet evenings, the hugs, the kisses, and the sex? How could you let go a person who have loved you first, and herself last? How could you let the word ‘goodbye’ permanently separate the two of you? You are heartless.
Heartless for not giving her a chance. Heartless, she calls you, for not listening to her. Heartless because she cannot accept the truth that you just let her heart rot in questions, pain, and hell. Heartless for breaking her bones, her muscles, her soul with those stinging letters that formed that word ‘goodbye’.
And now, all you can do is collect the memories of her. The happiest days had now past, and everything is just dark and bruised. You might regret all of the horrible things you have caused her but you are scared shit. You are scared shit to accept that you are wrong. Scared shit to say you’re sorry. Scared shit to let anyone see you and how frail you are now.
Then you’re left with that scent of vanilla lace. Oh, how you hate it now because some other person is wearing it near you. You hate it because you cannot hurt that stranger for reminding you of the past. Because that stranger isn’t her. You are, once again, being tortured by the pain that has formed inside you. That you formed yourself.
She’s happy now. She’s even happier to know that you are not.
Tuesday, July 12, 2011
Wednesday, July 6, 2011
Tuesday, June 28, 2011
My ideal guy would be taller than me. Tanned skin. Messy brown hair like he just got out of bed. He won’t bother shaving for days and just leave the growing mustache and beard in his face but still looks clean. Ears with industrial piercing. He also have unusually amazing tattoos on his body, not like those cliché tattoos that doesn’t make sense. Rough hands that says he likes to do things on his own. Deep dark brown eyes. He eats a lot but he can still manage to look like a rock star.
He’s got a good personality. He can be friends with people who have different kinds of characters. He’s fun to be with. He’s also a smoker, and every week we’ll challenge each other to stop and then fail miserably together. The only sport he likes is F1. He plays basketball and soccer but he don’t follow the game religiously. He’s patient. He would listen to me whine. He’d understand about my anger issues. But he can be impatient too. He’d tell me when to stop being a bitch. He’d tell me when I’m being stupid. He likes kids but doesn’t know how to approach one. We would fight about how he find dogs more awesome than cats. He hates the same stuff that I do but we like different things. We have inside jokes that people will never find funny. He likes to cuss a lot. He loves to drive around. He’ll stay with me when I’m drunk and will lift my hair when I barf. He’d be my crying shoulder when I’m having PMS. He also likes making me mix tapes about songs that don’t really make a point. He likes teasing me a lot but knows when to stop. We watch a lot of movies, but he won’t get why I like the 50’s French romance films or any 50’s or 60’s films, ever. We’ll have meaningful conversations and try to talk like we’re both smart adults. He would get mad at me when I bother him when he’s reading but he won’t take me seriously when I’m angry at him when he do the same for me. He’ll randomly text me excerpts from the book he just read and that caught his attention. That will be his way of saying ‘I love you’ to me. He hates Shakespeare. We take photos of our silly faces. We’ll never have a decent one. He will tell me not to skip classes because he doesn’t need a dumb bitch for a girl friend. He’ll meet my parents and tell me my dad is cool. He will always try to cook for me but will always end up almost burning the house down. He’s creative. Smart. Deep thinker. He’ll hold my hand but will break apart when my hands become sweaty.
He’d be a pain in the ass and I’ll be one too. We might give-up each other but I will always have a special place in his memory.
Wednesday, June 22, 2011
Sunday, June 19, 2011
Saturday, June 11, 2011
Thursday, June 9, 2011
Wednesday, June 8, 2011