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.