losingmyfaith

She likes to think she could bury him. She likes to imagine a place she can visit and know he is near, even if it’s only skin and bones. At least he’d be near. But, she imagines him lying in a field somewhere in France, his beautiful skin ravaged by different carrion. She imagines him alone and it kills her more than the telegraph did. How out of place that telegraph had seemed. It came on a perfectly ordinary Wednesday morning. Shouldn’t the world have ended the moment he stopped breathing? Shouldn’t she have known? Why had she needed a telegraph to tell her the news, when she should have felt it? Her mother, a self

 Who I am My words form into pretty little stories of life and the despair it brings. Locked inside my head spinning wildly, my poetry spills from my open lips and outstretched hands. I think in metaphors and dream in similes; my world revolving around the written word. Writing bubbles in my blood; it's who I am.

99 red balloons never sounded so beautiful because right now I wish I could fly away from you and disappear inside the clouds, never to be dreamed of again by the fragile mind who let go. You stole my red lips and wrote messages on the insides of my mouth so that when I woke up, you wouldn't have to be with me to explain where and why you had gone. I've tried and I've tried to forget your easy going smile and the way you made my heart pitter-patter but there's a piece of my brain with your image engrained into the flesh, and I just can't forget. We were kisses under rain clouds and love songs sung on front porches with hands

 There's a famous line from a poem by Emily Dickenson that states, "Because I could not stop for Death, he could kindly stopped for me." I can relate. It was a regular day, sun shining in the sky, when Death pointed his finger at me and dropped me to my knees. I'm surrounded by the scent of aniseptics and the color white, nurses coming every half hour to check the machines that never quiet. My skin is white and my hair is falling from my scalp to the floor. "The chemo should help," they say. "You'll survive this," they say. What they don't know is that I see him every night, waiting in the corner with his sorrowful eyes and beautiful smile.

 Three Years Later Kit paces, her fingers twisting around each other. Her heart beats fast, her mind racing. What will he think? Oh, he's gonna freak. He's gonna freak and he'll storm out of here and I'll be left alone with only myself and- The door to their apartment opens, and Al steps inside, groaning as he throws his folders and such onto the table. "I never should've picked philosophy of religion. That class is a beast." Kit laughs softly, walking towards him. "Bad morning?" He wraps his arms around her and sinks his head into her neck, inhaling her scent. "Hmm, not anymore." She smiles, wrapping her arms around him. For a few

I've always liked the smell of erasers and ink. Maybe that's why I feel just fine being in English class at seven in the morning on mondayswednesdaysfridays [I never understood these A and B schedules; just one more way for the "grownups" to control us.] "Good morning, class," the teacher says, with her square-framed glasses and elementary school shirt. "My name is Miss Bee, and I can't wait to get to know all of you." She starts to write on the board, the smell of chalk permeating the air. Door opens and he walks in, leather jacket and black eyes [ohsomysterious] I can feel all the girls in the class take a sharp