There are whispers in this silence, and if you close your eyes you will be able to see the patterns of heat, the blinding red and yellow and orange that flare up and disappear as the lightning strikes the earth and is swallowed up by the soil. There are whispers in the silence and you can hear them punctuated by the growling of thunder and the hiss of rain as it streaks down the window panes, invisible soundless claws that leave streaks of liquid—of colorless blood, of colorless tears, I’ve never figured that out, and I haven’t found the person who can tell me.
Get away from me. What makes you even think I’d speak to you? But no, why stoop to your level? Why not be myself? Why not give you a smile—a real smile, a pained smile, but a cold smile, a smile that reflects exactly what I feel. Why not give you my time—just a few minutes, because you honestly don’t deserve more, but some time nonetheless because after all this time perhaps you will realize, finally, the value of time, and not grouse about spending it with people who never ask for anything more, who never even asked for that. It’s like giving a gift and complaining the entire time about how much you spent on it and to what ends you had to go to purchase it. Who even asked you for it anyway? No one. That’s the point of a gift. And if you don’t want to give it—don’t. Continue Reading
There’s a light in you that I sense. A goodness and an openness—genuineness is what I’ve learned to call it, now, and it’s as rare as a gem and as precious as a heartbeat. There’s a hope in you for a better tomorrow, there’s a pulse that defies all the crossroads that lead out of your skin when they try to cut open your body. There’s a heart that’s been patched up so many times that the original color has been forgotten, the shape has been mauled about a bit, but it’s very much the same heart, and each torn muscle has grown back stronger.