Beautifully Broken

Just What to Say

Ashley

The blank page stares up at me, taunting, daring me to mark up its crisp nakedness. The pen and my brain, typically thick as thieves, have cut off all communications. Guitar cords ring in my ears, the same rhythms repeating to a point of annoyance. None of this feels good enough. None of the ideas that swirl through my head feel like they deserve to make a permanent mark on the world. My soul refuses to be poured, clinging tightly to my ribs. The blood clots too quickly in the cuts, no emotions flowing forth from the bullet holes I put in myself. Tattooed hands flash before my eyes, the feeling of calloused fingers exploring bare flesh sending shivers down my spine; a perfect cupid's bow upper lip curls into a smile, bells of laughter erupting from a hallow chest.

So hold me up against the countertop or the back of your closet – We've all got skeletons – And baby you're my favorite one – Seep into my veins like the poison you are – Perfect daydream – My worst nightmare

Letting my forehead hit my palm, I groan, pushing the notebook off the table. This feels forced. How did I ever sit and write a whole album in a night? Tapping into my pain used to be easy, like water pouring from the faucet. I guess my wells run dry. There's shuffling from the back of the bus, my notebook slid back into my vision. "It's good, Ashley."

"It's six lines, Bert. Six shitty lines about a shitty human being."

He rolls his eyes, collecting me in his arms as he plops down on the couch. The artist stares down at me, offering a friendly smile, "Some of the best music is written about shitty human beings. You're whole career started because of songs about shitty humans."

"I don't want to write about him. That gives him too much power."

Bert flips through a few of my failed attempts at writing songs, reading them aloud. As he nears the front of the book, I snap it shut, tucking it under my thigh. There are too many memories I'm not ready to tackle sitting on those pages. Too many false promises and rotting dreams. "No one but you is going to know it's about him. They'll take your songs and create their own meanings. This process is for you. The songs are for them. Bleed it out. Give it to the world."

"I need a piano."

The singer grins, patting me on the back, "I think I can manage that. Do you want some coffee with that inspiration?"

"If you're offering, I'm accepting." I blow him a kiss, turning my attention back to the notebook. "Thank you."

The crooked cursive stares up at me from the page, coffee stains and greasy finger prints littering the edges. The start of another collaboration that ended in explosions. The inked words whisper promises their writer never meant, making declarations of love and adoration. Our voices twined so beautifully together, calloused fingers playing guitar strings in the same fashion they played my heart. How long can you hold onto sadness before it becomes who you are? Maybe I'm starting to drown in my past, letting it block out the future that's laid out in front of me. Clinging to the happy memories, the could have beens; it's like stabbing myself in the heart over and over.

Him jut being there, the soft concern in his eyes this morning doesn't help. Seeing the way Gerard curls around him, watching Frank give Gerard the same loving expression he used to give me; it all makes my head spin. Blissful indifference only works when the person isn't shoving themselves in your face every chance they get. This just hurts, settling into my bones and making itself at home. The clammy chills of the flu cling to me, making me wish I could peel my own skin off. It's been five fucking years. Why does it still feel like it happened yesterday? Why can't I stitch up the wounds and walk away? The answer comes to me in the form of a little ache in my heart, an itching at the back of my mind. The realization burns, like a fresh tattoo over sunburned skin.