🍕short af okay. I'm sorry.🍕
I clench my eyes shut.
I inhale sharply and slip into the bathtub.
I undress quickly and throw my clothes to the side, not bothering to close the shower curtain before turning on the water.
It washes over me and I close my eyes again, resting back.
I turn the water from cold to hot and turn on my side, clenching my stomach as I let the tears leak out.
I cry for everything.
I wail loudly, letting the pressure of the day out.
Fuck Bray.
Fuck Dean.
Fuck my past.
Fuck everything.
I need to escape.
I lay in the tub for what seems to be hours, the water beginning to turn cold.
My tears burn hot streaks on my face.
I sit numbly for awhile, shivering hands cranking the water off.
I let a shaky breath go, the quiet sound echoing through my ringing ears.
I grab a towel off the rack and dry my face.
I sigh as I will myself to get up.
I step out of the bathtub, wrapping a towel around myself.
I almost trip on a small notebook.
I sit on the covered toilet and pick it up.
It's not labeled and as I flip through the pages, there seems to be nothing.
Some are obviously ripped out, some with only a scribbled sentence written.
Towards the end, the sentences grow longer and the last page is full.
It is labeled throughout 3 paragraphs, in number format.
It reads as so.
1/19/13
1
On the nights she is not there, he sits in the swell of the moon, writes poetry about the way coffee clings to her teeth.
She is a vinyl record lullaby, penny pressing the pin to her grooves, skipping over words and hours spent with the pillow cold, his arms aching chasms gasping for breath.
2
She spends her time repairing clocks, howling at lampposts that have long since burnt out, wrists a mess of poetry and pen ink. It's the choking that she cannot stand, all this air and nothing but her heartbeat. It's the way the stars scream across thousands of years and sear handprints on her hips.
3
Like the poets, we are dust and bones buried under the words we have but cannot say.
-DA
Holy shit.
God, Dean is better at poetry than I could've ever guessed.
On my birthday last year.
God.
Wonder who it is about.
I hide the journal.
I slip out of the bathroom in a towel and scatter to our room, the t.v. Left on but nobody watching it.
Dean plays on his phone in the dark and I quickly dress.
I throw on his shirt and some leggings after my undergarments.
He hasn't seemed to notice me.
I stand in front of the bed and he seems completely taken into his phone.
Probably texting another girl.
"Boo." I say, laughing.
He jumps and I giggle.
"C'mere. I've been waiting for you." He laughs, pulling me into bed.
He wraps his hand around my waist and holds my stomach.
Soon enough he falls to sleep and I listen to the sighs of his breathing and the ticking of his heart.
