She's angry.
Tugging at her black hair without care.
Knowing that something inside is going to explode.
All she sees is red.
A vexing nag in her head.
Pretending to crack her knuckles when she wants to lash out.
Her fists are ready to punch the world.
And let it shatter into smithereens.
●●○●●
She's sad.
The color blue draped over her shoulders.
Frustrated at the flaw that is herself.
A throbbing pain inside her chest.
She crumples the hem of her shirt in agony.
And encase herself in a thick armor.
Because vulnerability invades her faith.
●●○●●
She's confused.
Swirling, twirling, tumbling.
Falling deeper into the mess she didn't create.
Questioning if all is just an illusion.
Or if she is disillusioned herself.
The power of doubt is amazing.
As she leaves through the yellowing pages.
●●○●●
She's hateful.
Holding a grudge over every little things.
Because nothing is right anymore and she couldn't care more.
Her love is full of resent.
And she feels distasteful over herself.
Hates herself for hating.
A myriad of hearts are waiting to be embraced.
Her heart stops agreeing a long time ago.
●●○●●
She's dead.
Empty black holes in her eye sockets.
Instead of colors there are shades.
Inferior and superior to all.
An alpha and an omega.
She lies down on the concrete floor.
And let herself fades into oblivion.
YOU ARE READING
Blunt
Short Story"For I am a blunt edge, the dull side that is of a deadly weapon; yet still, I can cut through the waves in an odd sense." -Forgive and Take- "Like a progressive evolution of a semi-completed music score, our hands reach out of the nebula. We pictur...
