Experimental Playwrite

Dale came home to his wife, Ellie, and daughter, Nicole, in ratty clothes covered in sea-green paint. His silhouette waited to be noticed in the kitchen doorway. Nicole threw her brush on the unprotected countertop and he stepped into the kitchen, startling the two of them. He examined the uneven coat on the walls and the paint on the floor and oak cabinets. They went behind his back again, and the mess reminded him why he did everything in the house. He glared at Nicole’s attire: his favorite Fraternity Alumni shirt ruined. He turned away and ran his fingers through his short hair and he let out a strange laugh that evolved into a roar as he flipped the kitchen table sending the paint tools in the air and a paint can splattered across the floor and the ceramic centerpiece shattered in the puddle of paint expanding across the tarp and Nicole screamed in unison with the crescendo of the crash. He yelled indistinct complaints to them as he opened the cabinets and pulled dinner plates and salad plates and saucers and teacups and wine glasses and soup bowls and they rained down and shattered at his feet. He pulled bottles of herbs and spices from another cabinet and threw them against the wall, and they exploded like fireworks leaving marks and abstract spice designs on the wet paint. Ellie pleaded him to stop as he pulled out the utensil drawer and turned it upside down and let the silverware disperse and jingle across the floor. He dropped the drawer and realized their frightened expressions and the mess he made. He stepped over the piles of glass and globs of paint and paused beside Ellie.

Now I recall why I am a hopeless romantic,

seemingly emotionless

tendencies to choose physical intimacy rather than something genuine,

preference in distance,

lack of security

decision to remain a faceless fuck.

Because I used to be a hopeful romantic.

Because I was too emotional.

Because as the weaker being I grow attached, too fond of something that appears to be genuine, but in the end it blows up in my face.

And I tell myself, I told you so.

And that euphoric state I was in, that high that I couldn't seem to bring myself down from? Well, I plummeted without warning.

And then I become small again.

My skin grows thick, for I claim I have figured out how to control love. The chance of emoting is not an option. I trained myself to turn it off 

Yet it is a vicious cycle: I move through, careless and without desire.

Then I come across what I think to be another notch on my belt, but it seems like so.much.more.than.that.

Love is a Hiccup in Paradise.

To me, the greatest thing is to assume the act, and walk away intact.

The noise settled down. Maya was asleep on the metal-framed hospital bed with our new addition to the family nestled in her arms. I sat on the hard-back chair by the one large window of the room attempting to rest, but I could not. The room had been filled with flowers and balloons of congratulations, so I bunched them beneath the awkward pastel of a cow in a grassy field of the unknown.

            I took a sip of Maya’s cup of water on the nightstand. I poured more from the plastic pitcher so she wouldn’t notice. I gazed at the two breathing in unison, scared of their existence but more afraid of losing them.

            I tried to sit still, but being cooped up in the hospital for almost two days was driving me insane. Our barbeque plans for Independence Day were also foiled, but I guess it is a bit selfish for me to think like that.

            I looked to the small clock radio on the nightstand and it read 7:36PM.

            I’m missing Jeopardy, I thought.

            I grabbed the remote and aimed it at the television hanging from the foot of the bed. The sudden disruption woke Maya, and she looked at the cause and then at me. I turned the volume off and approached her bedside. The baby was still sound asleep.

            “How do you feel?” I whispered.

            She curved her lips to smile in a way that made it seem painful to do so.

            “I’m fine,” she croaked.

            I placed my hands in my pocket and smiled in a painful way.

            “What about you?” she questioned.

            Perhaps she saw the unsettling look in my eyes.

They respectfully say I am ill,

Complete with trite dialogue to make one fall in love.

My priorities swim through a sea of competition,

Yet the nonsensical thoughts takes over.

And the soft piano that whispers in the background,

Well that's just reminding me of my desolate silence.

Yet I cannot imagine living without this misfortune of a mind:

My over analytical capabilities are through the roof,

Humiliation exists, yet only when I come to my senses.

For I blurt the words I speak to other female minds, and when it comes out to a sensible man, I sound insane.

Well, I am aren't I?

And all this self-medicating is beginning to depress me.

The reason I began in the first place was for a quick fix for happiness,

yet I find myself growing weary and tired too frequently.

Instead of satisfaction, I find myself dejected and miserable.

The amount of pills I swallow is insurmountable,

thousands of bottles cluttered in a musty medicine cabinet.

Others that are taken a multitude of times a day are scattered across my bedroom for convenience. 

I've become a sloth: overindulgent of the sweet pleasures of life, and waiting to be waited on.

I produce promises that intended to keep, yet I do not follow through...

But these pills are a fast solution.

And my faith lives on in science and lethargy,

Long live effortlessness and resolution you can swallow.

So I sit and wait for results like a simpleton,

Her heart had finally settled to a steady beat as she started to doze off.

Our hearts have been racing in unison all night, and I held her tightly and brushed her stray hair off her cheeks. Such a pleasant way to fall asleep, yet I could not.

I could never sleep when she was beside me. There is simply too much to miss.

Strangers Across the Universe

           “And up there we have a ladder that leads up to the roof, so we would climb up there at the best of times and watch the sunset,” Massimo said.

         He pointed towards a mossy roof as he stood beside Alessandra on the damp yellowing grass. The sky was a painter’s orange and pink blend with the clouds disintegrating. For a moment, Alessandra fixed her gaze on the roof, imagining what the view of the sun falling behind the earth looked like. And in that moment, Massimo caught her out of the peripheral of his eye and smiled.

         “Sounds romantic,” she laughed and paused and they remained in the same position. Her mind wandered for a moment.

         “I’m deathly afraid of heights,” she added.

And she stated this so nonchalantly, which surprised him.

         “Really?” he questioned as he fixed his eyes on her.

         She nodded, keeping her eyes on the roof.

         “I have absolutely no fear of heights,” he said.

         “Well, I mean if I’m strapped in and feel secure then I am fine,” she paused for a minute and shrugged, “I don’t know, I guess I’m just scared of falling.”

         Massimo nodded.

         “I guess you can think of it metaphorically, too,” she added.

         “I don’t even think about that, which can be a bad thing,” he laughed.

         They continued to stroll around the spacious backyard, and the sun’s rays began to disappear. Alessandra gathered her long black locks of hair and pulled it over her right shoulder. They both were dressed business casual from the day’s events, but Alessandra looked simple in her summer dress and Massimo adored that aspect.

         “Or a good thing,” Alessandra said, “You see, I relate heights to be like a metaphor for… other things, which dictates the way we act upon certain circumstances.”

         The hesitation before she said, “other things” was apparent in her voice, and Massimo let out a modest laugh, “Well, metaphorically speaking you can’t be afraid of falling. It’s a part of life. I look at it as a way of learning.”

         He paused and watched Alessandra look fixedly at the roof, and was not sure if she was listening.

         “If you fall, you pick yourself up and try again,” he said.

         She looked at Massimo and smiled. At that moment, Alessandra felt several emotions rush through her veins. “What a beautiful place to fall in love,” she thought.

         At that moment, Massimo longed to take her into his arms and allow her to let her vulnerability slip away. Alessandra turned back tot he roof once more, such a beautiful place to love, to share with someone you care enough to show.

         “Can you bring me up there?” she asked.

         Taken a back by her request, he smiled. “Are you sure?” he asked.

         Without hesitation, she nodded. Still staring at the spot she wanted to stand.

         To break her from her trance, he took her hand and guided her to the side of the house. There was a rusting ladder fastened to wall with the blue paint chipping away from age. He motioned for her to go first, and she inhaled deeply.

         “Hurry, the sun is about to set,” he laughed.

         She looked at him with promise, gritted her teeth, and grabbed the ladder. A step at a time, she went higher and felt secure with Massimo following behind. Finally she got to the top and stepped onto the roof cautiously. Massimo hopped over the ledge and inhaled the crisp air.

         “Isn’t it so nice up here?” he asked.

         She nodded as she walked to the spot she gazed at so longingly. She stopped and inhaled deeply. She looked towards the horizon with the millions of buildings between her and the end of the earth. Beyond the illuminated windows of downtown was the peaceful valley, and she had the urge to weep.

         Massimo stood beside her and sighed, “Isn’t it beautiful?”

         She nodded.

         “I used to have lawn chairs set up for my roommate and I, and we would just sit and relax up here. Especially after finals,” he said.

         She nodded again, beginning to whimper.

         “Are you okay? Do you want to go back down?” he questioned.

         She shook her head violently to let him know it was not the height. Her eyes were glossy, and her forehead was crinkled as she tried to fight back tears.

         “What’s wrong?” he asked.

         She shook her head, finally letting a tear escape. He took her into her arms and embraced her. He rubbed her back as she began to weep into his shoulder. After a moment she regained composure and thought, what a beautiful place to fall in love. She moved from his arms and closer to the edge. He followed cautiously.

         “Careful,” he begged.

         “I’m fine,” she said as she crept towards the ledge. The fall was not far, but she could have at any moment. The skirt of her dress swayed from the breeze, and she tucked her hair behind her ears. The sun had gone already, leaving hardly any light for the two to move freely on the roof. She looked towards the horizon and she smiled.

         She turned around and returned to Massimo. He reached for her hands and hugged her once more.

         “I envy you,” she muttered.

         “Why?” he questioned.

         “You can stand beside the ledge and you don’t feel that twist of knots in your stomach from the idea of falling?”

         He shook his head. “Nope,” he laughed.

         She nodded.

         They paused and he held her for a moment longer, resting his chin on the crown of her head.

         “Why do you envy me?” he wondered again.

         A million different answers surged through her mind. He was the epitome of perfection. He had accomplished what the higher-class society instilled in the monotonous brains of their fellow citizens. He so admirably called it, “Living the dream” in the most un-condescending way possible. His life was set, and it was going all according to plan. She envied his content lifestyle, living to the fullest, having time for his friends and family, and the control he had.

         Yet all she could bring herself to say was, “You have it all figured out.”

         He chuckled, still clinging to her, “What do I have figured out?”

         She broke from his embrace and folded her arms.

         “The heights of the heavens!” she pointed.

         Massimo waited.

         “It is only achieved one way: Love. And heights are a lot like love. You can be brought up to these fantastic heights,” she gestured towards the view, “And you feel just…”

         She stopped and closed her eyes. She folded her hands together and held them to her chest. She inhaled and breathed, “You feel phenomenal. And at the highest point,

         She paused again and moved towards the ledge. She looked down to the floor, which then looked like a bottomless pit. She held her stomach and whimpered, “You look down and you fear falling from that sensation. Even if you are fastened and secure, you may still fall.”

         She turned to face Massimo, “That’s just one way of falling. Falling from love. Then there’s falling in love, which is just as bad.”

         Massimo had taken a second to take all of what Alessandra said. His eyes were fixed to the roof as he thought about the concepts she brought up.

         “Explain falling in love,” he said.

         “I’ve climbed back from falling before, and I am content now. Yet as I am able to stand, one may come along to make me fall. So I fall a little further, and once I am there you bring me to new heights and the view is magnanimous. I won’t ever want to come back down,” she said as she held her folded hands to her chin and watched the moon begin to glow.

         “Me?” he grinned.

         Her trance was broken, and she turned to him with a nervous expression, “In general.”

         He laughed, “Well like I said,” he stepped towards her and held her waist, “Sometimes you call and you get back up and try again.”

         She smiled and nodded shyly.

         What a beautiful place to fall in love, he thought.

         The sky was a purple haze with diamonds strewn across the world. The moon illuminated the roof for the two as the gazed into each other’s eyes.

         “You know what that means, don’t you?” she asked.

         He shook his head.

         “You’re not afraid of falling in love,”

         He smiled, “Well you asked me if I ever get that twist of knots when I feel like I may fall.”

         He paused and he studied the look on her face: a vulnerable hopeful gaze so beautiful, he wanted to remember her this way always.

         “Well I feel like that when I stand beside you,” he admitted.

         Her expression went blank and she stopped breathing. Her lips uncurved as she said, “Me?”

         He nodded and smiled in such a sincere way that reminded her to breathe again.

         “It’s not a bad feeling, Alessandra. It’s exactly what you said it is: phenomenal. As high as the heavens! I’m not so scared though because I love the thrill and adrenaline that comes with it. It makes me feel alive. It may sound like I have it figured out, but really everything comes with a risk and I take everything with a grain of salt,” he paused to allow her to speak, yet she said nothing.          “Maybe I’m just lucky I guess… At least I think I am, especially right now. But you’re an extraordinary person, and I can’t even imagine the things that go through your mind, but I wish I could. You may think I have the world at my feet and that my life is perfect, but really I envy you,”

         “Me?” she finally spoke.

         He nodded as his eyes turned glossy with tears welling up gradually.

         “Why?”

         “You see the world so beautifully,”

         She shook her head.

         He nodded in dispute, “Yes. You and your poetic tendencies, I cower because you see the world and it’s tiniest details. You see the things that speak to you most, and you respond in such an elegant way. You walk with your heart on your sleeve, and I can see it and it’s beautiful. The terms you use, the way you express them, and it makes me want to hold you. And you so eloquently put it as a fear of falling from the heights in which you brought me-well I’m afraid of falling in this way than falling off the highest mountain.”

         All the while, Alessandra had begun to sob to such beautiful words that have never been said to her. She did not know where to begin, and all she could do is cry.

         She threw her arms around his neck, and he embraced her amorously. He smiled and kissed her forehead.

         “What a beautiful place to fall in love,” she whispered.

         He brought her in closer, feeling the warmth of her and kissed her gently.

I dream of the sheets, which cover us like so: Tell me what color are they again?

            The morning sun creeps from behind the feather clouds, and into the bedroom window. The dim golden color that illuminates the room, which brings a disturbance upon my eyes, to wake, to disrupt this daze in which I am so content in.

            Yet just before I wake from this intrusion, I fall back into motions of the night before.  

            I dream of the theatrics of making love: Tell me what was your favorite part again?

            The moment the nervous cold clammy palm presses against the nervous, warm, sweaty palm, and lovers lacing their fingers together to embrace such a gesture. Lest we not forget the way our eyes catch one another, to call out to another’s lips – pleading to be kissed. Caressing one’s cheek so softly, and you tuck your finger under my chin to gently lead my way to your lips.

            Every movement, perfect and sensational and burned into my memory, kept me in a trance. The moment I become conscious of this surreal act. The brush of your finger tips down the small of my back. The feel of your fingers running through my entwined hair, and you follow the curvature of my neck to my hips. And we enter this state of euphoria, and I whisper as we lie cheek to cheek, “Make this last forever.”

            Thus the hours inch closer to end this blissful occasion, and our bodies remain tangled to one another, fitting together like missing puzzle pieces. The grazes and graces, and your hands grasp and cling to me as if I would float away if you unlatched.

            I am heaved from this recollection, and awakened by the cruel rays of the Sol. I wake to find every article of clothing strewn across the bedroom floor, and a sense of accomplishment surges up and down my spine. I fear to move to unfairly wake a lover from slumber the way I have, but I fear to move to find no lover beside me.

This leads me to dream of the sentiment of abandonment: Tell me where have you gone again?

To wake alone, unsure if companionship will return. The sinking feeling comes about , the one you feel once you turn and see a lover’s groove remain on the crumpled sea of sheets, but no lover to fill this groove: Evidence of your existence, but your existence is nowhere to be found.

            I force my body to turn over, anxious yet reluctant but only to find my muse, sound and true. And I dream of the sentiment of departure: such a bittersweet concept, yet knowing the next visit will be sweeter than the last. This keeps me content. And I compare you to the feeling lovers forget once they have been together for so long: the anticipation and excitement, the hours on end spent on the phone, and we need not say one word for I am perfectly content just knowing you are on the other end. All this is accompanied with sleepless nights that turn into bright morning, and real eyes realize that you are my bright morning. You are the sun that crept through the window to wake me from these dreams of sentiments to let me know that this: this is not a dream at all, but what a concept! Reality.

            “You needn’t dream any further, my darling,” beloved will say to me.

Yes, I am boastful of my darling's name,

As if he already belongs to me,

Love emits passion, agony, and shame,

All emotions that compel one to flee.

I wait in my sweet desolate silence,

And shy away from that, which I yearn,

Thrown in an upheaval of violence,

Yet still, I remain none of your concern.

I strive and long to make my lover swoon,

In attempt to grasp mutuality,

Going beyond words, and gifting the moon,

Hoping to bring love to reality.

Yet I find you full engulfed in flames,

The Amorous Fool Theory

The moment he regained composure, he set out for Florence. He took Antonio’s car to save money, and he arrived with haste. As he parked the car, he folded his mother’s letter and stuck it in his coat pocket. He took a deep breath and examined all the numbers mounted on the buildings side by side. He checked, and rechecked the street names to make sure he was at the right address.

            Finally he was able to emerge from the car and he knocked three times. He heard someone rustling and walking towards the door. A woman who resembled Alessandra to the core opened the door slowly. Her eyes were still as green as he remembered, but he did not gaze in awe, but in amazement that they had met again.

            “Adamo,” she breathed. She looked behind him and searched for Alessandra. She opened her door wider and looked at his car.

            “She isn’t here,” he said, tranquilly.

            And Damiana looked just as beautiful as she did the day he made love to her. She aged well, he could see where the years had been brutal marked in small areas of her cheeks, but he didn’t care much. He studied her for a moment, and she did the same. Alessandra resembled her so much, and in that moment he missed her more than he ever had before. He wanted to take Alessandra in his arms and rock her to sleep just as he did when she was an infant. She had grown so fast, the years flew by without him realizing. He had been too busy enjoying his life with Amelie, working to get ahead at his job, and at times leaving Alessandra behind just as he had learned to leave the memory of Damiana in Italia. He almost wept thinking of Alessandra and all the resentment he had built against his own daughter, whom he learned to love as the years got easier with Amelie.

        A new figure in front of Alessandra watched the whole charade from the lockers to the classroom. She was new to the school, a week old, and she had Alessandra in a few classes. Her name was Leandra Corpus. She was skinnier than Alessandra with a pointy nose, and jet black silky hair. She wore it long, almost as long as Alessandra’s yet just shy a few inches. Many ignorant students swore she practiced witchcraft since her eyeliner was heavily drawn on unlike most girls. Alessandra broke from her pseudo-flirtatious game with Danilo and sat forward. Leandra turned around and smiled. Alessandra returned the gesture.

        “What’s your deal with that guy?” she asked.

        “Pardon?” Alessandra questioned.

        “You guys are always flirting. I see you guys kiss sometimes, too. When you think no one is looking,” she whispered.

        Alessandra blushed, but not in a flattering way, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

        “Okay Princess,” Leandra laughed. She turned around just as the teacher began the lecture.

  This is one of those, “coming-of-age” tales- but not the one where the guy gets the girl in the end. Certainly not the type that makes you realize you can better yourself if you truly set your mind to you. Definitely not the kind where true love prevails all obstacles. Surely not a heart-warming account where good triumphs over evil. Most importantly not the sort where the girl is the most beautiful one in the room, and all the boy sees is a haze around her perfectly presented image.

            It is the type of story that resembles, and is best described as the type of guys your mother warned you about when you were old enough to realize the opposite sex had more purpose than just to throw rocks at, or run away from. It is the type where all good things must come to an end. Nothing gold will stay. Evidence of Murphy’s Law where anything that may go wrong: will go wrong.

            It is the type where there is really no happy ending because all is fair in love and war.

            Well this is war...

The more time I spend by myself in my own miserable silence, the more time I have to think of who I am.

The sound of sadness is muffled: never do I hear it until it is amplified. And I drive recklessly, because I’m 20-something, Asian, and female. I’m short, my clothes are ill-fitting, and I am a bit egotistical. I feed off the compliments I receive on a daily basis, yet I remain hungry, unfulfilled.

I’m a drug addict, sex addict, a sadist and smiling about it. I speak low of myself so you will speak highly of me, this is my twisted idea of modesty.

And in my silence, I review all the characteristics of what I have become. And I tell my companions about him, and him, and him, and him. Oh and did I mention him? And I can tell she worries about me the minute I mention his name, or his name, or his name.

And in my heart I assure her I am under control. But my actions suggest otherwise. A vicious circle I thought would end before someone gets hurt. And of course, being the weak female plagued with overwhelming emotions, that someone will be me.

And I say to myself, I’ll stop.

But myself says to me, “No you won’t. You’re addicted to attention.” And I’m right. “You’re addicted to vanity.” And I’m right.

“You’re addicted to hurting yourself.” And I’m right.

Because I’m the one who goes and looks for trouble. I ask to be spoken to like a tramp, right boys?

I basically have “Please ask for naked photos” tattooed on my forehead, right boys?

I’m asking for you to pass judgment on me before you even get to know me, right boys?

And the worst thing is, whatever he thinks of me: I attempt to fit the mold. Why? Because I’m constantly in self-destructive mode.

And for the sake of entertainment, I’ll exaggerate it a bit, throw in a few pretty words, and bow at the conclusion of my performance.

And the less food I eat the more tired I grow.

The more weight I dangerously drop, my actions progress to worse.

The more you worry, a bigger burden I become.

But I don’t know how to cease this beautiful monster I have become.

I don’t know the person you think I’m supposed to be.

You can tell me, but I don’t think she ever existed. For I am the magnificent liar: Producing deception so eloquently, I almost fall for it myself. 

The minute I was dumped, the first thought that came to my mind was, “but you said you would always love me.” Because what couple doesn’t talk about marriage at some point? Everyone lives in the moment, and not to say there is anything wrong with it, but you’ll soon find that you live in reality after your first heartbreak. When you find yourself out of a relationship and back into the rhythm of finding someone new, it may turn out in two ways: 

1.    You actually find someone else, maybe they have been waiting for you or you wanted them… This may or may not work out, but for the time being it will suffice.

2.    Sex. You find someone you just want to sleep with. For women, you may want more, but the men don’t want anything else but your body.

For number two, you may find yourself stuck in this rut because you will be so used to finding someone to sleep with, you will forget how to find someone to love. You may think something of it, but if you have sex before you’ve established a real, true connection, you’ve already tainted the relationship.

         Enter the age-old saying, “Who wants to buy the cow when you can get the sex for free?” … Well you know what I mean.

         Because what guy is going to turn down sex unless he practices true chivalry and gentlemanly behavior. So I find myself selling my dignity for attention. Things that are supposed to be sacred and saved for someone you find worthy enough to unwrap you so delicately… well people are just handing it out on nights believed to be "the moment we fell in love." Guess what? You did, he didn't. Maybe my perception has been misconstrued. Not everyone is worthy. My mouth speaks this foreign language, which are unlady-like; so provocative you’d think a steady respectable mother did not raise me.

         By the time a boy stops speaking to me first is about the time I realize I had lost respect from him and respect for myself. And catching the attention of a boy is tricky. Because if you do submit to his requests of breasts and dirty sex talk, he may lose respect for you. Or if you refuse to submit to his requests of breasts and dirty sex talk, he may stop talking to you all together. And if he has the looks to make you go weak at the knees, you may do anything to keep them talking: which can result in him to stop talking to you anyway.

         See, boys are so fickle.

         This leads girls to go mental. So why is your girl crazy? Because you make us that way. Because you come with no emotions, mixed emotions, and tendencies to cheat, to lie, and only want sex. Some girls have the ability to have no emotions, mixed emotions, and tendencies to cheat, to lie, and only want sex, but the ones that do not, are the worthy ones. And this goes both ways.

         I find my hunger for attention to be somewhat out of control. Since the departure of an unconditional love, I have my heart set on self-destructive mode.

Enter: demeaning myself for good-looking boys.

Enter: allowing them to speak to me as if I am an object and not a lady.

And yet, I am shallow and perhaps this is why I allow myself to be objectified by these pretty faces, hoping it will turn into something more, (but that is the hopeful romantic in me. But knowing my plague of girl emotions allow me to run away with such idealistic thoughts, well that is the hopeless romantic in me. The two lesser evils in my heart and my mind; yes we can dream, but we can break hearts by dreaming.

         My heart and mind do not work in unison because my mind says sex is fine all the time without love in the mix (sometimes it's safer that way), but my heart does not interject until my body has done my mind’s damage. Then my heart loves, my heart breaks, and the vicious cycle continues. My mind and heart are in a constant quarrel and disagreement. Until they find reconciliation, I shall never love again…

           You would think I’d learn a lesson or two by heartbreak, being treated like dirt, or making one of the biggest decisions as a woman. You’d think I’d change my ways, but these “lessons learned” only fuel the destructive fire lit and ignited only God knows when. You’d think I’d learn after each Tuesday at 8PM, I find myself on my bedroom floor in the exact position in the exact spot when I found out I could be living for someone else. Crying silently, not regretting but reliving, I see all the joy a child can bring, yet the world this would have entered is joyless. Two negative crazy 20-something-year olds do not make a positive, sane couple.

         I find myself getting lost in my thoughts, blank yet closer to melancholy on the spectrum to the point where pretending is just not working anymore.

         Unhappiness is: not having that hand to hold while you feels the physical and emotional pain. Who knew I could ever laugh again? And like the Christian I am, I search for the answer: why is this happening to me and why did it happen with such a heartless bastard? And another voice out of my own mouth whispers, “You brought this on yourself.”

         And on that Tuesday, on a cold July summer night, I was broken. The fire had taken everything from within me and I deteriorated. This girl you once knew, well she is dead. But I miss her so. Now exists a monster devouring every sad soul in her path. Searching for someone to hurt just as she once was for many reasons: power, sick-satisfaction, and to make someone feel as low as she feels.

         This monster is beautiful. Her hair falls fair, her lips painted plum, her eyes accented like an Egyptian queen, and her heart as small as a thimble. This thimble weighs her down like the world on her shoulders. A small heart heavy by discontent, something shy of hate.

         Power hungry like a spider luring you to her beautifully spindled web, she leads you to believe her heavy thimble of a heart is filled with love. She will break yours before you even fall because she has been the one lured to fall, and was broken before.

         This sick-satisfaction she feels from finally being in the position of power to control the situation, because for once she is breaking the hearts but this doesn’t mean her heart is intact.

         In fact, this is destructive to one’s self and her surroundings. Feeling proud, but nothing to be proud of. This power is addictive: being able to brag, walk around with your nose high, talking about how low the boy must feel when you shut them down from their high hopes, or how you don’t even have the decency to even speak to them again. Oh the monster finds so much pleasure in such an activity, almost as enjoyable a sex (and perhaps even more).

         As this monster, I grew tired of keeping up a charade and painting my face of different shades. It is a combination of loving to hear my “accomplished conquers” as if I am a conquistadora over the uncultivated land of men. I shouldn’t think so highly of myself. This, plus being such a story-teller, well I may just need to tell a different story.

         Though this monster makes it sound as if these roles she plays is a glamorous way to live, she will still find the time to fall in love with words never said directed to her. And the old me tries to defeat the monster I’ve become. Fixing things that were broken, mending relationships, ridding of relationships unfit to keep. Still, the monster is within me and is me, sprung from the heartbreak and loss of what could have been a beautiful thing. This seems like an opportunity so long ago that now it seems like just another story to tell without emotions or mixed emotions.

         And to my unborn love, I am sorry. I dream of you every night where you could be mine, but I wake in a cold sweat remembering you are not. My stomach turns with confusion: Am I happy to wake alone? Or am I relieved? Am I sad? One thing for certain, I cannot regret. Not to sound selfish, but I was truly thinking of you. Because I still speak to you as if you are still within me. And I whisper a secret to you that your father did not act like it at the time, but he would have loved you. And I whisper a secret to you, your father was unfit to be your father. Unfit to be a human being, and this is not your fault. I couldn’t bear to be linked to him, and this was a burden I would have never wanted you to carry. And though my decision sounds selfish, it was anything but. I did this for you because one day you will be physically with me, but your father will be a different father, worthy to be called your father. You will come without burden. You will be. And I call you Vita Mia, My Life. Gone away from me as if you were really here. Vita Mia, amore mia.

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         How easy is it for me to be swayed by these pretty little words that mean everything to me, but nothing when said by them. And then I find my heart has the capacity to be broken by a total and complete stranger. How strange and weak I realize I am, how can I be so susceptible to these feelings, and why is it so easy for me to fall in love? It is the sad life I lead. Someone thought it bright to give me these reins to steer, but no one knows my story is out of control. The only time I am happy is when I am pretending I am someone else. When I am lying to keep myself busy. When I am complaining to keep myself occupied. When I am pulling at a stranger’s heartstrings, playing them so elegantly like a harp’s strings gliding off my fingertips: this is music to my ears. I am the great pretender. Mostro Mio, she is the Bugiarda Bellissima! The Beautiful Liar.

         She is embarrassed to be associated with me. She is ashamed of how to tell this tale. She spins the webs so out of control, so beautifully that you may fall in love too. Hell, I fall in love and I know the truth. Maybe that is how good of a liar I really am. I fool myself.

The many things one may learn when they get older. Most importantly: interaction with people, (especially the opposite sex). Many people go through their entire adolescence without one single encounter of the opposite sex, and the type of encounter I speak of is obviously sexual or intimate.

In this day and age, it is more common to lose your virginity in high school, but old fashion folks would disagree with practices such as these. At heart, I am old fashion but to an extent. I recall hearing about peers having sex at age 15, and I thought this was unheard of. I would even be taken aback by a couple kissing in eighth grade.

Once you are corrupted, it is hard to turn back to your old ways. There are the good old ways and then the bad old ways. In my case, I have both.        

         Corruption is one concept well known by the American population. Our youth is corrupt, our minds, and our actions. What we do, why we do it, and whom do we do it for?

         A common corruptor of youth: LOVE. The poison that comes from such a seemingly harmless experience, yet to one who has never tasted this fruit devours it without hesitation. However it is something that those who are well experienced stay away from. Why else do you see all these men with no emotions, mixed emotions, and tendencies to cheat, to lie, and just want sex? Why else do you see these girls dressing up to impress these men with no emotions, mixed emotions, and tendencies to cheat, to lie, and just want sex?

         Love is the reason why that guy is a womanizer: sleeping with so many women he lost count. But beneath his thick skin, his senseless talking, and his pathological lies there is this emotional wreck hopeless romantic. Why is he hidden? Why is he never to be released again? Because one girl he truly loved betrayed his trust and cheated on him, and now poor little boy will never love again. Because why should you give your all to someone when the person might not do the same?

         Love is the reason why she is searching for the attention she is so desperate for. Because if you’re used to one boy having to pay attention to you for over two years, it’s like a drug withdrawal when that attention comes to a screeching halt. Because if you’re used to being loved unconditionally, being told everyday that you are safe and secure you’ll be searching for someone to fill that void.

         But all you find are those men with no emotions, mixed emotions, and tendencies to cheat, to lie, and just want sex. But you take what you can get because for a split second, you have that feeling of being loved – even for the moment – it will suffice for the time being. To be told you are beautiful, gorgeous, and they want/need you. Of course she knows it is just to get into her pants, but vulnerability is love’s best friend and worst enemy.

         It is because love works in a strange way. Those heartbroken for the first time will never actually see this until they surpass the pain that was inflicted by someone that was supposed to love them unconditionally. But then you find yourself saying, “But he/she was supposed to love me.” And there is that word again, “supposed.” Those heartbroken for the first time will ask them selves why, “woe is me,” etc. That is the way love goes. Some come and some go. But you won’t actually be able to say this to yourself until you surpass the pain that was inflicted by someone that was used to love you.

         So the search for love is something great, but of course you find things about yourself along the way. It is an adventure with yourself and someone else in the world…

       Love is a risky business: the misery business. Those who turn the other cheek from love are afraid. They will deny this emotion, because they will claim they do not have emotions. But the trick to love is taking the risk. Who knows if the next person will be like the last person? Who knows if you take this chance; will you get hurt again? So the best thing to do is heal and love again: because not everyone is the same. You must give yourself whole-heartedly, because there is always going to be a chance that you will get hurt again in the end.

Does that mean you should hurt someone else to keep yourself from hurting again? - No.

Does that mean you should close yourself off from love completely and attempt to live your life pretending to be content with loneliness? - No.

You take your experience, mourn over its passing, and then you take off and hit the ground running again. You take it, and make a mental note: This is not what I'm looking for.

         Love feels the same at first, but life goes on.

         So here are my trials and tribulations; a road I took to find myself and where I suspect I will end up eventually.