Literature

time

They say time heals all wounds.

It's a lie.

Time creates wounds. It leaves scars that won't fade and makes you realize your life is futile. You work so hard to get ahead, to make a name for yourself but want comes of it?

You allow your heart all the pleasures it could ever want and you chase excitement on your fingertips.

The unexpected is terrifying but thrilling and you feel an adrenaline rush when you try something crazy.

You reach a new high. It makes you dizzy.

This is youth. Reckless abandonment.

Wild. Untamed. Free.

Then your heart grows weary and you're suddenly so tired of scotch burning your throat and grinding against an unfamiliar face. You're so sick of mindless games and risky bets it makes you ill. Kissing strangers in a closet and body shots suddenly seems so juvenile.

So your heart searches for something more permanent.

You want stability and your heart jumps at the first sign of romance.

For me it was Sam. We met at a party. She was flirty and I was wasted so my ears liked the sound of the slurred compliments she showered over me. I guess I expected it to be a fling but then we started holding hands and bonding over small things: favorite radio stations and smoothies. I liked Sam but our relationship lacked depth. Sure, we were intimate and she made me feel good but I never felt completely satisfied.

I was less than excited when I had to take English literature my senior year. Like I hadn't already proved my sufficieny in the English language. Liam told me he'd sign up for the same class to make it slightly less miserable.

I showed up twenty minutes late on the first day of class, a noticable hickey on my neck and I remember it clearly.

He just smiled sweetly and said "nice of you to join us Harry."

It made my blood boil. I rolled my eyes and sat texting on my phone the entire time. When I got up to leave he asked me if it was worth it. I was confused until his gaze fell on the marks on my neck and I nearly fainted, the tint of my cheeks the color of a budding rose.

"Fuck off."

"You seem smart, surely there are other words in your vocabulary."

"My sincerest apologies."

"I like you. You know why?"

"I don't really care."

"Because there's a fire within you that can't be put out."

"Yeah but here you are trying to put me out."

"That's where you're wrong Harry, I'm gasoline. I'm your fuel."

"Are you as good at teaching as you are getting under people's skin?"

"I don't know," his eyes glimmer. "Your skin it pretty thick."

And he laughed at me. Laughed because I was supposed to be the raging fire but he still found a way to burn me.

...

I wanted to hate his jokes and the way he tried so hard to relate to the students in class. I wanted to hate the wide rimmed glasses perched on the bridge of his nose and the sound of his laughter.

It's hard to fabricate hate.

He told us to write a poem on the third day of school and mine was about hate.