This prolonged silence, long as it is honest, suffocates my heart.
I always do that… have these speakings of the heart. Is it so bad that I feel so deeply?
I don’t know, but these words seem to always fall on empty ears and hardened hearts.
I don’t enjoy stringing my heart along an endless line.
Is it so bad that I miss talking with you?
I guess it is.
What makes a woman strong?
Is it her ability to put up with horrible conditions or her ability to recognize she deserves better and to leave the horrible situation?
I would think it is that latter, but I often hear, “She’s so strong to stay with him.”
I guess I thought we got past that kind of thinking back in the 80s and 90s.
If you aren’t looking for a solution don’t talk to me.
If you just want to complain, do it with someone else.
Complaining gets you no where but worked up.
In school my professor brought up a topic called “The Culture of Busyness”. This refers to a culture where people complain about their stresses as if it were something to brag about. It is one thing to discuss your bad day, but it is another thing if every conversation you have is surrounded by negativity.
Smile, and think about the positive.
“I just want your body.”
Leave my head, leave me to my sanity. Let my torture be stopped – images of lips on ears, of whispering words of desire and passion – my stomach is sick from the thought of my yearning. Makes me think how you aren’t worth my tears or my desire. But that doesn’t matter does it. You began this desire like a fire which you have now abandoned to go out of control with no means of being put out.
I’m beginning to hate this line. It is torturing me like a picture book where ever page has the same line with the same picture of his body, rippling with perfected muscles. Oh, and the tattoos! How their blank ink swells my heart.
This line must seem shallow, and to a point I guess it is. My desire has been whittled down because I can’t have more.
One day as I sat on the GO bus on the way home, I felt inspired to write. A line I wrote that I simply adore was, “I wear my heart on my tongue.” Although I intend to use this line for the basis of a short-short story, I thought I would describe a visual that comes to mind.
Valentine’s Day Candy Heart
My tongue extends out of my open mouth to display the chemically induced pink of a candy heart. The candy has no smell and its texture is gritty against my taste buds. It does not dissolve since my tongue is exposed to the open air and dries from the tip up. Curling to hold the candy in place, my tongue touches the pointed end of the incorrectly named shape, that steals its name from a beating muscle of chambers. It is prominent and ever present, this point that is like the period of a sentence: if present, it is the end all, punctuating finality; if missing, your eyes are left searching of the missing link.
My tongue has begun to dry out from the tip up, as if the candy spread out a thin sheet. I retract it into the confines of my mouth carrying the candy like a surfer on the waves. The chalky substance crinkling my face as I crush the heart between my teeth. This candy has no taste. As I ponder the possibility of how a candy (is it not mostly made of sugar?) can have no sweetness, I instruct myself to be wiser in the future: Don’t take the candy next time, it is always disappointing.
