Today is a Saturday, she sits in bed , back against the wall and places her legs across from her and crosses them. Her hair falls down her shoulders it's purple she's wearing a green shirt and some pink shorts, she pops all the pills she needs and then turns on the tv. All in all life has taught her is only survival, with words and actions and end outcomes and planned lifelines. She has a red line almost like a scar on her eye , as if the eye splits down the middle and she stares at the screen in front of her, exhausted and confused, why'd life go this path ? The line that should lay on her wrist is instead on her eye letting everyone know how bad she feels inside but why doesn't it ever just tell someone what it really says ? How come no one understands how her heart has melted so it's dripping down her rib cage and just filling the void that was once there, she feels so warm now oh so completely alive and that's when she realizes it's almost over.
I'm sick of the actual process of living, the process of feeding and hydrating and sleeping and doing things it's exhausting and annoying, there's too much of everything going on and I see the look on that guys face and how destroyed he looks and that's my fault. My fucking fault I hate to see someone so broken after what I've done, dark brown curly hair and eyes of sorrow, red roses and thorns and colors. Lights and fireworks and gunshots, they startle that poor girl and she jumps with each pop and flick and bang. Each pop leads to a different story in her head, the first told her of that day in fourth grade when one of her neighbors was in her class and they fought over who was stronger, they arm wrestled and pushed heavy ELA books till one popped open and smacked him on the face and landed me on the no recess list. The next bang of the many times she's been struck in the face. The bright lights all turn to blood as she looks at the night sky, her head spins and swirls and shifts and shuffles. She shakes the feeling away and the colors shift to strays of beauty. Strange things happen every day here, trains transport armed vehicles every day and the government is soliciting truck drivers
YOU ARE READING
Rough beauty
Non-fictieI haven't rough drafted this, or even thought anything through . This is my fucking story. My thoughts, yeah it's dark, I don't care, and I don't even care if anyone reads it.
