#writingoftumblr

I can't help but wonder why she finds herself dangerous. As I sit near the bonfire I can see her for what she is-- a girl in pastel pink sweater, yes she told me what the difference is, who can't help but play around with the grass that surrounds us all.

Tell me, if she were as dangerous as she says she is-- why do I want to get up and go to her instead of everyone else who is sitting around this fire?

I can't help it if my feet move on their own and the next thing I know is her sweet fragrance surrounding me much like the orange light coming from the fire. I sit next to her and I can almost hear her sing to herself. I can't recognize the song, of course, we don't have similar music taste. While I prefer cool rock that keeps me awake she prefers the sound that puts her to sleep.

"You are not as dangerous as you claim." I interrupt her singing the unknown song.

She looks up from the ground as if she didn't notice me at first and then she smiles. Oh, that beautiful perfect smile. The only thing dangerous about her would be that smile-- how could it not be? She has perfectly shaped white teeth and the perfectly shaped red lips that form the perfectly sha- you get it.

"And why do you think so?" She whispers.

I wave my hand around because it is so obvious. "Look at you!" I stated. So obvious. "You are sitting here in front of the fire and singing god knows what and you are smiling your smile and... "

Her smile widened and somehow sweetened. "And?"

"And I wish other people weren't here so I could pretend we are on a date together."

I grin as she throws her head back to laugh at the sky. She never laughs without throwing her head back-- maybe because she knows that we mortals can't survive the beauty of her face while she is laughing so the only one who can witness it is the one in the sky. The one above us all. 

"You don't want to date me." She chuckles. 

"Of course I do!"

"No, no." She puts her hand on my cheek. Her delicate soft hand that spreads warmth all around my face. "You don't want to date me. I am--"

"I just proved that you aren't."

She grins. "Look around. Do you see her?"

I look, not because I want to see what she is showing me but because I can't help it that I want to look. Her words hold magic in them, her sentences are like sweet honey dipped orders that you have to follow even though there is no fear of punishment. Only love. 

"She is an artist." She says. "If you date her, she will draw you everyday. She will show you what you look like in her mind. She will capture every movement of yours in that mind of hers and then she will put it all out on a piece of paper to show you an image of yourself that mirror can not provide."

"Now," She grabs my chin and turns it in the opposite direction of the artist. "See her?"

I nod against her hand and she lets go of my chin with a chuckle. "Her. She is a singer. You will wake up every morning with a sweet voice singing in your ear-- not one day will start off bad. She will sing in front of thousands about the way you walk and the way you love her. A guitar, a piano or a drum, you can give her anything and in the end all she will sing about is you. In fact, all she will sing for is you. You will never live in a lonely silent world ever again."

I let her grab my hand as she points it to another girl sitting away from us. "Her? She is pretty isn't she?" I nod silently because I am afraid that if I disagree, she will stop talking. "She is a photographer. All she needs is a camera and there will never be a moment in your life that she won't capture. You won't ever have to worry about missing something ever again because you will know that she will have it for you. She will show you the world through a lens. She will show you yourself through a context."

"And now," She turns my head and I stare into her eyes. People always say eyes are beautiful but she proves them wrong. If you look at her eyes alone-- they are ordinary but on her face they shine brighter than the sun on a bright afternoon in march in Delhi. I know, very specific, but that is the brightest thing I know. Apart from her eyes, that is. 

"Me," She says. "I am a writer. I know that you will think it would be perfect to talk to perfectly constructed sentences and have poetic idioms be written about you but you forget that I am dangerous."

I sigh and decide to finally ask her. "What is so dangerous about you?"

"I can make the world hate you." She shrugs. 

"What?"

She turns to look at the fire in front of her and then turns back to me as if she had collected her thoughts. "I control what you look like. I control how they will see you. I can write you as an overly affectionate creature or as an abusive bastard and they will believe me. They will believe me if I say you have a tiny nose or if I say you were the physical manifestation of the grinch. Your reputation, I can destroy it in one second because I know how to tell something to make people believe it. I know how to make everything seem real because I know how to tell a story."

She comes closer to me and smiles. "Am I not dangerous then?"

"What will you make me out as, then?"

I love reading poetry. A lot. The sensations authors can convey in such few words is remarkable. My English teacher has us do a poetry unit where we read and write poetry, and one piece of advice that has stuck out to me is this: keep your poem based in things.

Don't say, "I'm lost." This is vague and doesn't provoke any emotions from the reader (generally). This can also mean a variety of things: being physically lost, emotionally unsure, lost in love, etc.