Writing

Do you edit short stories? I have a multitude of ones that I want edited, so I can compile them into an anthology of sorts (not for publishing though, just family and friends).

The water rushes over us,

You make your choices and then your choices make you. The world is not at your feet, but in your mind, and what is a mind but a maze?

Platform Switch

Love your writings❤️ keep writing please

My heart

August. A month full of lasts. The last time you see him. Until the next time. And the next. You sit next to him as you stare at the girl just below the surface of the lake. She looks like you, except she seems paler, thinner, emptier, and small ripples disrupt her image as if to show how easy it would be to get rid of her, to forget her. But she catches your attention before your eyes glance to his hand traveling across your skin, and you find yourself wanting her to stay. She asks you to love her like you used to. You don’t answer. You exiled her into the lonely waters so you could love him twice as much. And when his hands stopped plucking all the right strings and instead started unstringing you, you felt the loss twice as much. You argue with him, tell him it’s his fault you can’t make music anymore. You tell him you don’t know who you are anymore. He tells you you don’t know what it’s like to feel broken, and you tell him he doesn’t know what it’s like to be missing. What’s broken can be mended, but what’s lost could never be found. You ask him to love you like he used to. He doesn’t answer. Almost September. You go to the lake again. The girl just below the surface can barely be seen, the water is so blue. She floats under there, suspended in time. She asks you to love her like you used to. You reach out your hand.

I've always only been able to love people for the bad, for the secrets in their palms, for the matching knives in our backs, for the bitterness they hold onto like a lifeline, but I loved you for the good. Until I got a taste of something darker. You can take the monsters away from the girl and take the girl away from the monsters but you can't take the monster out of the girl. I would have loved the delicate way you tore me open, been awed by the beauty of it, if I didn't so desperately want to keep your soft pieces soft. Not everyone should have razor blade skin. I thought you understood that. I hoped at the very least you would jolt me into caring about myself, but all I could think about was a more elegant way to come undone. It isn't your fault I'm not whole, but within my brokenness there was love, and now I don't know if I can stomach giving it to anyone else.

You were too complicated and sad to make me seem complicated and sad so I was happy and you were almost okay.

Irony is slow