Contelysia

the moon burns to an ochre ash, unflinchingly obvious: unafraid and scintillating. with stolen heartbeats, it glows brighter, with remnants of lost loves, it turns deeper — yet, if the moon knew of my love, perhaps, it would appear as seraphic to you as it does to me, perhaps then, the glory of our love wouldn't be of ruin; it would become the glory of peace. the glory of bliss.

My fingers typed relentlessly, stopping at no word, pausing at no emotion. It was real. It was palpable as I wrote my heart out, my words swirling and splaying into the emotions I never could express well. I never knew what to say. I never knew how to tell you what I felt. Sad. Overwhelmed. Loved. Insecure. Hurt. Happy. How did I feel? I never knew unless I started to write. And when I did, the words would tell me how I felt. "Why do you love to write?" he asked me, my eyes focused on my diary as my hand wrote in cursive.  "Writing never hurt me," I murmured softly, and he tipped my chin with his hands, looking into my eyes, "How is it to love without being threatened to be hurt by your mind?" I remained silent, my eyes flicking back to the page, "It helps me breathe," I replied, smiling softly. I wish I knew what to say when I loved. I wish I could express how much words mean to me without writing them down. They are my story. They are who I am....

My mother always told me to keep myself first. To keep my head up high- no matter what makes me feel otherwise. To smile in the face of trouble, to cry when I feel like it, to demand when I needed to, to request when I wanted to, but never beg. Never lower who I was for someone who wouldn't care about me as I did about them. In silence, I lose myself. In solitude, I forget everything, and I reach for someone. Someone to talk to. Perhaps, picking the phone up. Perhaps, dialing your number or dropping a text after you've left me on seen for eight hours.  Keep my head up high. You don't need me as I need you. You could care less while I give my whole world to you. My time, my space, my mind, my soul - while you couldn't spare a minute of your "forgiveness": forgiveness for something I did that was never wrong. Forgiveness for something that only gave you a chip more of who I am. Maybe you smile as I apologize. Maybe you laugh, pointing a metaphorical finger at me...

 He pulls me by my hand, making me stand on my wobbly feet.  "Come with me," he says, tightening his grip on my left hand. Perhaps, to the bystander, that grip was firm. Firmer than comfortable, but that grip anchored me. Reminded me of who I was and who I wanted to be.  Free. I want to be free.  I respond with the same fervor, pulling him towards me and wrapping my arms around his neck, the envelope fluttering from the movement. His encircle my waist, his voice echoing in my ears, "I want you to go with me," he says softly, his face buried in the crook of my neck. I shake my head, tears almost building up in my eyes as I fight my emotions. It was true. I want to go, maybe be with him. His voice calms me, his presence fills me with joy, his words bring me ecstasy, and his touch grounds me: but he was not who I wanted to be. He means captivity. I want to be free. "I-" my words begin without tallying with my mind, making him step back and look at me. The met...

I hate Tuesdays. It might have been a mundane thing to say if it wasn't for the fact that while Mondays have me skipping to work (note the sarcasm) after a restful weekend (note the sarcasm, again) while Tuesdays have me wishing for Friday again. Just one day of work, and that's how I feel. I feel like I need to  Netflix and chill  again, without the euphemistic  part of it. But I've got Liv with me. I'll feed her those cheddar goldfish she loves so much. Livie's my cat, if you didn't know that. And no, I am not the old cat-lady. I'm barely thirty. ...okay, I'm thirty-eight but that's definitely not the point. Now, coming back to Tuesdays.  I might have disliked Tuesdays a little less if it weren't for yesterday. You guessed it, yesterday was a Tuesday. What's worse this time?  I saw someone kill someone.  I know what you're saying. What does the crazy cat-lady know?! That's what I thought, too. I knew, for a fact, that I was not h...

"How the-" I pause, catching my breath, huffing erratically, "How did you make me run?!" I complete, laughing, falling onto my knees on the field. I lay back, my back against the cool grass as the sun shines brightly above me, making me squint my eyes. My heart beats loudly in my ears, my lungs inflating and deflating rapidly. "What?" she asks, crouching near me, "Are you — dare I say— tired already?" she chuckles, patting my shoulder. "Poor you," she fakes her sympathy, but she lays on the grass beside me, her long, brown hair splaying beside my head and tickling the skin of my ears. I shiver sarcastically, shifting farther. "Your hair tickles!" I say, laughing. "You would be lucky to have hair like me," she says, raising her upper body by resting on her elbow on her side, frowning. "Of course, I would," I say, nodding with a big grin on my face. She laughs once and chides me with her squinted eyes. "...

"Hold my hand," I say, looking straight into her deep, hazel eyes. "What?" she asks me, chuckling and averting her gaze. "I need to know you are real." She grasps my hand firmly, entwining our fingers. The warmth of her hand comforts my cold, sweaty hand. "See?" she nods her head at me, her eyes trained at our conjoined hands. "I am real: you found a friend." Tears well in my eyes as I look downwards to my lap, my grip on her hand tightening. "Why...?" I trail off, a limpid drop falling on my blue jeans, darkening the fabric there. My teeth suck and bite on my lower lip, my brain swirling and swirling into the darkness of being alone. A sudden squeeze on my hand brings me back from my thoughts. "'Why', what?" she asks me, her tone gentle, unlike anything I ever experienced. So...insightful, making it seem like she knew every nook of my person, every emotion I feel, every thought that scuttles into my brain. ...