Darling Lark,
My heart was neither solid nor stable whenever you were around me.
You made my nose sting and my eyes water with the amount of flowers you bought me no matter how many times I tried to remind you that I had hay fever.
Your singing was awful but at least your fingers made up for it.
And the first words you ever said to me were, "I've never been with a black girl before".
Tell me you remember that?
Because, Lark, I do.
And truth be told, I'd never felt so fucking disgusted by my own skin, but at least the sex made up for it.
At least knowing you bruised easily made up for it. It made me glad that my skin was tinted by a glorious shade of brown and that my pain would never be shown to you
I want you to know that I still think of you sometimes Lark. Because you're the one reason I don't believe in love at first sight.
When I first met you, I thought you were prettiest girl I'd ever seen and for a while, you emulated the others but that revelation was as fleeting as our relationship.
Lark, you were about as refreshing as vodka.
You with your pale, white skin that replicated the canvas' you painted on (your paintings are fucking shit by the way) and your short temper and bitter humour.
I'd never despised alcohol until I met you.
You taught me nothing. But still, I learned a lot from you.
YOU ARE READING
bitter narratives.
Kısa Hikaye"you liked the way my skin emulated the colour of soil" she was the girl with the dark brown skin, with an even darker entente with love. « a series of letters to the haunting lovers that forgot her. »
