lemme tell y'all. i think i was writing this back in march. it's december.. & i still don't know what im doing w/ this. i think its got a good plot, but idk if imma make it a book. it's what the contraction was supposed to be🧍🏽. just read it.
In her eyes, I saw the hatred, lived in that horrendous feeling unwillingly. A pair of lava hot, coal-colored pupils. The disdain was prominent, extrusive, and louder than a herd of elephants.
She held the burning steel like it was an extension of self. She held it like it was her pride and joy, the solution to all of her issues. She had love for the steel. The kind of love that began young and naïve and only grew with time and experience. Her niña.
My body shook an uneasy vibration. I owned that same love, only it tunneled to the steel carrier. In limbo with a dangerous affection, my mind and my heart roared at one another, fighting an un-winnable war.
But she looked at me, one swift look, one abrupt smile and my heart quieted my mind all over again. I fell hard for her.
My Soft Spoken Assassin.
I perceived both sides of the woman I loved, examined her thoroughly, told myself that I could separate the two, convinced myself that that was the truth.
That was the thing about love, or being in love. When you travel into the depths of love, the characteristics that your lover carries changes your perception. Romance changes perception. Excuses get made. Lies get told. When the truth is revealed, and you're in love deep enough, those excuses turn into full blown delusions.
The woman I loved, when I fell in love with her, was absolutely perfect.
We loved the same things, our conversation was always entertaining for the both of us, and from the beginning, I fell in love with her voice. She was so soft spoken, but her personality was nowhere near timid. Like she was whispering but she spoke firmly and her smile was on display for everyone to see. Full lips. Porcelain pearly whites. Skin as smooth as warm butter.
The woman I loved was the kind of woman to wake me up to a sweet kiss, warm tea, music that matched the feeling she felt in the morning, and something, anything for me to put on my stomach. She understood and accepted my eating habits, helped me through it without conversation or agreement. Immediately.
She was gentle with me, admired me from the beginning, gave me all the attention that I craved. She was perfect to me, for me, so I knew something was up.
I knew that when things seemed too good to be true, they usually were. I tried to pull myself out of the quicksand we called love, but my ankles sunk deep before I realized it. I was in love, pretending not to see things that were in plain view.
My woman. The woman I loved.
First it was the red on her white button-downs. She came back to bed with me too late, left when she thought I was dreaming. But I wasn't. I was awake, my imagination driving me to madness.
I watched her intently. She would come home too late some nights and the next mornings, she was cinnamon swirl sweet. Those mornings, she would push my eating habits some, make me a small spread. It was bittersweet, allowing her to love on me while knowing she had some secret she was hiding that made her creep through the night and show up to me with a racing heart.
