A temporary workspace for TWC writers who are between blogs, feeling burnt out, or fed up. Relax. Write. Give no fucks.
The blade is brand new, sharp and shiny. I barely even feel it drag across my skin, and blood immediately gushes from the wound. It takes a few more strokes before I feel alive. I run cold water over the cuts, and examine the pink flesh beneath the tanned skin. Water and blood run together down the drain, and tears mix in with no discernible difference in color or texture, though the salt stings the gashes in my wrist despite the numbing water.
Eventually, the blood begins to slow and I remove my wrist from the water. I dry my skin on toilet paper, and flush the rest of the evidence away.
Bandages and long sleeves make it seem it never happened, and the people in my life go on, happily and foolishly thinking I’m the strongest person they know.
Have you ever been walking to the postbox with a letter in your hand, when looking down at it, you suddenly realise this letter could change your life forever? No matter what the outcome of it is, your life will never be the same - the repurcussions of sending this one envelope, paper-bound in trees, are so far off. But you know they will come, and like ripples in the sea, they will come back to you with your answer. I hope mine is a good one.
Sometimes I see myself in the stars.
Universes collide and mesh into smiles.
I whisper goodnight as the moon fades away.
Can’t help this feeling of despair in this darkness.
Inside my heart there is a dwindling feeling of hope.
Don’t tell me everything will be okay, because I know
Everything will not be okay. I like to think that perhaps
It all comes down to the acronyms we leave behind.
Sentences end in punctuation marks, not puncture wounds.
Not at all close to happiness, but
Over the fence there is only green. (At least-
That’s what I’ve heard anyways).
Things will get better, right?
Happiness and hope will come along someday.
Endings don’t always have to be happy, but
Any day now, the sun will shine and
Nothing beats the morning sunrise over
Soft skin and peaceful dreaming. This
Winter weather will fade soon enough.
Everyone will smile at you and
Remember all the memories shared.
Sometimes what is is the quintessence of what shouldn’t be. Sometimes what ‘can’t be’, becomes what will be. Some people who are become people who aren’t.
The quick movements of ink jot down the simple sentence constructions, writing and rewriting themselves in the head topped by scraggly hair desperately calling out for its long lost friend, the shampoo.
Sometimes what is pretty becomes revoltingly ugly. Sometimes what should repulse, invites, and sometimes what should attract, repulses.
He tossed his pen aside, the sentences becoming too elaborate, too complex and too invigorating for such a tired mind, brilliance dulled with hard liquor and greasy food.
i just feel like a constant failure
Everyone thinks that loneliness sinks.
Like a stone in water, dropping quickly and suddenly.
It disturbs the peace and the tranquility below.
It pops upwards like a cork from a bottle.
Only there’s no where for it to go. Yet it pops.
It pops frontal, the parietal, the occipital, the temporary.
Lobes no more.
By pop pop pop pop pop
Only its trapped.
Trapped to rise and rise and keep rising
Until finally it rises right through the lid.
The stopper which keeps it all together.
Both forever waving friendly hellos
To a pop of loneliness.
i’m not sure what’s worse
being aware of a problem but being completely unable to articulate it
or being able to articulate it beautifully, but being completely unable to tell anyone
A razor is different from most other blades. Clean, thin, and unimaginably sharp, a razor is capable of many things that other blades are not. This comes at a cost though. Razors break easily and dull quickly unless special attention is paid to their care. To combat this some are meant to be used once and then thrown away. The good razors, ones meant to last, are crafted carefully and sharpened, honed, and cleaned frequently. Regardless, both serve a specific purpose.
I do not know what kind of razor I am, whether I will be thrown away or carefully worked back to perfect condition, but I am keenly aware that I am growing dull.
Dear, you. Sincerely, me.
It does not matter who I am writing to,
So long as I continue to write, right?
But perhaps all lines and sentences
Deserve a greater purpose than just
Scribbles and scars on torn paper.
I know not who this is for anymore,
Maybe I never knew who you were.
But if you asked me for a better verse,
A longer word, a louder song,
Still I’d try, to write you a novel
Just to show you that I’m still here,
And I still care, regardless of wounds.
And perhaps we all deserve a greater purpose
Than just specks of molecules floating around
In this apathetic and immense universe.
But I just thought, that maybe, just maybe.
If I gave you my soul, that I’d be enough.
The wind was a bitter cold, almighty force that rushed passed the ears of a sliver-sized girl. Her head was bent and crooked and her eyes watering from the peacock feather eyelashes that were pushed into her pupils from the wind. She pulled her chapped and thirsty lips in on themselves, warming them with chattering teeth and a limp tongue. Further and further she wound across a great, sprawling lawn, whose vibrant green, sometimes lively and bursting under the cheerful rays of sun, was rather a toxic green that shone hauntingly amongst all the greys.
From high above, in a gothic styled building with its high arched windows and ever reaching roofs, a similar slender figure was watching the girl’s impeded journey towards her. Those watering eyes and chapped lips, were no doubt the same as her own, she closed her eyes, and imagined that those spiderwebs of veins across her eyelids which were so horrid and unbecoming on her, were beautiful and graceful on this new appropriation that made its way towards her. The light spray of freckles, which highlighted her naturally gawkiness, was rather mysterious and unique. She wondered, as she had many times before since finding the truth, if she had known of this girls existence could they have been lovely together, where she had only ever been graceless on her own?
I glace at my phone as it vibrates on my desk. I’m surprised to see it’s a phone call. I answer, and your voice is low and urgent.
“Run away with me.”
My brain takes all of 3 seconds to process, and I tell you I’ll start packing. You tell me you will be at my house in an hour. Frantically I throw clothes and a few other important belongings in a bag. I scribble a note to my roommates:
“I’m leaving. I don’t know if or when I will be back. Please, take care of the cat and I will get in touch with you as soon as I can. Love, R.”
I cuddle my cat for a few minutes, then grab my bag and camera. I pace the back porch and suck down three cigarettes while I wait for you. Your car appears and I toss the last half a cigarette and jump down the stairs. I throw my bag in the back seat and drop in next to you. The first thing you do is cup my cheek in your hand and kiss me. It’s passionate and pressing, and when when you pull away I look very carefully into your eyes.
“It doesn’t matter. All that matters is you’re here now.”
I know you will tell me when you are ready, so I put on my seat belt and settle in for the drive. You roll down the windows while I decide on music. Once we’re on the interstate, you take my hand. You glace at me, and kiss each finger on the hand you’re holding.
“Thank you for coming with me.”
After so many years of talking about leaving our lives behind and starting over, I’m a little surprised you have to say that. It has been perfectly clear that I will accompany you anywhere. I lean over and kiss your cheek.
“No problem. I’ll be here as long as you want me here.”
I lean back into the seat, and prop my feet on the dashboard. I don’t ask where we are going. The destination isn’t important. What is important is that we are starting over, and that we are together, and that isn’t going to change.
My head lowers and my long, curly hair falls over my face. From here, I can watch him without anyone noticing. People don’t tend to notice me anyway. What draws me to him is not his height, nor his smile. It isn’t his hands, though he has interesting hands, with long fingers and callouses. Musician hands. What draws me to him are his eyes. Clear blue, framed by square, black framed glasses. Windows to a soul I can’t fathom. I don’t know him, yet, but I’m drawn to him. I want to know him.
Not an intimate, relationship kind of know. That is not the draw I feel to him. I want to know him in a way that we can sit and talk for hours over a drink. Or we can sit in silence, comfortably, and know that the other person is content in the company and the silence. I want a friendship where we can know what the other thinks simply by exchanging a glance, because I know his thoughts are worth knowing.
I don’t know him, not yet. But I want to.
I just have to figure out how.
It has been 2 years. I know him now, better than I ever hoped that I could. Our night together was the most perfect thing that has ever happened to me. Quiet sighs and louder gasps, the brush of his fingers over my body. His skin rubbing on mine, his breath soft on my neck and ear. His lips, quick and passionate; and his body: long, lanky. The heat consumed me and set me on fire while I was tingling and quivering from his touch.
His arms around me while his voice gets me drunk on desire and knowledge. Pieces fall continually into place as he bares body, mind, and soul for me to hold and examine.
He tells me I’m beautiful, that I’m something to be desired. That I’m a worthwhile human being, and that I’m beautiful again. These are things I have a hard time accepting, but since they’re coming from him, I can believe them, though I blush.
He holds me so carefully. I tell him I’m not going to break, and he tells me he won’t either.
It would be so easy for me to get used to this, but I know it shouldn’t happen again.
That doesn’t change the fact I want it again.