Tourmaline

Tourmaline

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"Some people are just simply and utterly unlovable." He fell silent. His breathing was rhythmic and manual, as if he had accidentally fallen asleep. I took a moment to listen to the soft whistle of his exhales, the sound of his fingers tapping a fast-paced melody on his stomach, the crackle of each swallow. "That's stupid," he said finally. I glanced at him, then back at the charcoal carpet of clouds above me. "What do you mean?" "It's the exact opposite," he explained. "People are too lovable. You're going to love and be loved tons of times in your life, and nearly every person will feel like 'the one.' It's an infatuation complex." "That's a pessimistic way of thinking." He shifted to face me. His eyes bore into mine, those wide, vigilant eyes the color of rough cut jade and spring grass, familiar but foreign, empty but full. The next words were like acid on his tongue. "And yet so goddamn true." *** How do you describe your entire life in one trivial, ordinary paragraph? Hello, my name is Tourmaline. I'm 5"7', a Virgo, and a 'dog person.' But that's not me. Those are things beyond my control. Although, come to think of it, most things are beyond my control. See, I'm stuck. I'm caught in this eternal loop, this inevitability to fall and rise. To mistake and to fix. To bend and to break. It began with him. He was the sun, the moon, and everything in between. He was beautiful. Beautiful in the way a forest fire is beautiful. Beautiful in the way that made it hurt. Beautiful in the way that made you fall in love without even knowing. Which begs the question, how does one escape something out of their control?
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FINISHED AND COMPLEATED. Just poems, I suppose. Or maybe a scrapbook of scars. A chaotic collage of half-born stories, abandoned plots, and feelings too loud to ignore. This isn't a novel. It's a graveyard of unwritten books- stitched together with ink and impulse. A little trauma here, a little heartbreak there. Addiction. Bad parents. Dangerous love. The usual mess. I never claimed to be a poet, but pain has a way of teaching rhythm. And when the stories in my head refused to become chapters, they became verses instead. My father? A ghost in flesh. A man who cradled needles more tenderly than he ever held me. He is an addict. A lover of oblivion. And I, the daughter left behind in the smoke of his escape. Does that make me a girl with "daddy issues"? Or just a girl still learning how not to bleed from wounds she didn't choose? This book is for the overthinkers, the almost-authors, the ones who feel too much and write too little- until the words finally spill out like blood on the page. Welcome to the ride. There's no exit. But there's poetry in the wreckage. Author's Note I didn't set out to write a book. I set out to survive my own mind. This is what happens when you have too many stories, too many ghosts, and not enough discipline to finish a single novel. So instead, I wrote poems- or something like them. Fragments. Feelings. Flashbacks. A scrapbook of the soul. Some of these pieces are fiction. Some are memory. Some are just what happens when you stare at the ceiling too long and let your thoughts rot into poetry. If you've ever had a thousand ideas and no idea where to start- if you've ever felt too broken to write but too full not to- this is for you. Thanks for riding with me. There's no map. No neat ending. Just the wreckage, and the words we make from it.

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