Love is probably the worst thing that can ever happen to a person like me.
I was not meant to be loved.
How can you love something that cant't even love itself?
But this boy peaked my interest because it was the first time someone had payed attention to me in months.
My whole child hood was spent being quieted and sent to my room while I pretended to not know about the things going on outside my door.
Back in those days I would sit down in the only place I could find peace to read poetry that my youthful mind couldn't ever possibly begin to understand.
I always had a fascination with words and the works of the imagination.
I guess that you could say that creativity was my gift.
I had spent my whole life being a figure in the background of everyone else's show.
It never bothered me much, I didn't deserve the limelight anyway.
But that day, that boy sat down next to me and seemed genuinely interested about my life.
I guess I craved attention so badly that who I received it from was merely a matter of the first one to pay me any mind.
So I gave in.
When he talked it reminded me of black coffee.
His words were bitter and laced with lies but when he spoke I felt warm and full.
He reminded me of the leaves in the fall, ever changing by the season and only showing their true color momentarily.
Nobody admires green leaves, but they are awe stricken as the leaves start dying and turn brown.
Maybe if he was still green and young like a leaf in the summertime I wouldn't even pay attention to him, but since his colors started fading into rich oranges and reds as he died, i found him beautiful.
Most would describe him as handsome, but I refused. Handsome is something anyone can be with the right characteristics, this boy was fascinating.
He talked with his breathe not his voice box, and I wanted to breathe him in like oxygen.
I didn't know that the air that drew me to him so quickly was laced with nicotine more than the cigarettes I smoked.
Sometimes he would come sing to me on that step where we met every day. His voice never rasped, it was always crisp.
Sometimes I believe that I loved his voice more than I ever loved him.
Because I was a girl with ink blotches on her heart.
No pencil could erase those smudges of ideas that died due to lack of support and words meant to be said.
But let me tell you, back then I wasn't proud of those disfigured blotches that dotted my soul.
But now I wouldn't trade my stained heart for anything in the world. Though this soul of mine loves too much and shows too little, it was those blotches that made me who I am.
For what is the sky without clouds or skin without scars?
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Helllllllo
Sorry it's been so long (to the five people that actually read this)
Hope you enjoyed give me some comments peeps I like to hear from you!
