You’re floating away on a cloud of nostalgia so soft and snug, yet sharp and stinging. It’s like the perfect pillow that forms to your head and envelopes you in its comfort, but somehow you don’t notice that there are nettles inside. They prick you and you bleed, but you don’t want to leave the cushion of comfort and something more – that something your life is lacking now, something you once had but can never regain, can never even grasp, not even just once more for a brief moment. So you let yourself sting and bleed and you don’t cry out – no, the crying is on the inside. You let yourself drift and be carried away by the pleasantness of it all at the same time as you are pierced and pulled down, dragged across the earth through the rocks and dirt. Because while a part of you sinks, another part flies. It’s a strange and paradoxical state of mind, nostalgia.
The sprinkle of stars across the sky was an inverse of the scatter of freckles across her nose, her shoulders; as the one constellation grew brighter by night, its echo, too, became more prominent, but in darkening the longer it was exposed to day, to the sun.
The stalks of wheat in the mid-August evening light were an imitation of the strands she kept loosely woven down her back; they whispered and whisked in the wind, dancing like the fair flyaways that framed her face.
The languid blooms of yellow trumpets taking their midday nap were like so many miniatures of her in that saffron sundress, flitting around in the summery warmth, teasing him with twists and turns.
The morning storm clouds, gathering heavy and angry in the damp grey sky, patterned those slate shaded irises of hers; the lightning flashes mirrored the blaze of her gaze, and the nimbus nebulosities spilling their tears replicated her own precipitation.
No, he could not escape her.
that sick-to-your-stomach feeling
of instant regret
and burning eyes
white hot tears dancing on the edge
of your lashes
threatening to spill over
to scream for attention
body disobeying your mind
a leaden weight fills
the once fluttering butterflies
lay heavy and dead
you can almost taste the vomit
teasing its way up
as you tremble trying
to hold it back
a scorching pain aggressively
frantic breathing takes over
mind and body synonymously
convulsing in near hysteria
at what you cannot
We believed it a chapter of destruction.
But oddly enough,
It’s the base of your entire book.
No plot, climax, or resolution,
Just a sick circle of absolute conflict.
Why not throw away the two young heroines,
Rip out the pages about them?
This seems to be a motif for you.
Playing house with the villain and lying the whole time.
Now that makes for a good love story.
We’d gladly watch him drive you mad, if the setting excluded us.
But alas, you made us unwilling scapegoats
Who suffer the consequences of your childish decisions.
Dealing with the plagues of his sadistic mind,
The way they seeped into yours like an infection.
Choosing between us and him,
But always choosing wrong.
You want to feel young; you love him.
You must think you’re living in a romance novel.
Besides, your story is “none of our business.”
But everyone’s read your idea of a fairy tale;
Gossip has made it a bestseller.
Endless betrayal and social humiliation.
We gave you countless chances because we had no other choice.
It’s quite satirical that you even had kids.
Lucky for you and lucky for her,
Your youngest is able to forgive.
But me – I lost all respect for you on the first page,
In the prologue, even.
And the tale doesn’t seem to have an end.