viksbeats

(...& all we found ourselves doing was mouthing the words to some forgotten song sung so many years ago.) He wrote me a song.  It was just a dedication of words that meant nothing to me; they were words he had borrowed from conversations, lines of books I had read to him while lying on his chest, poems I'd written on the steamed up windows of that old car, letters he had sent me.  It was perfect goodbye, tingling through my memory like a last, lingering kiss.  I couldn't let him slip away.  All I had left were black and white still frames in my mind that I held onto like final, tender clutches of his hand.  My head was in emotional overdrive

IN THE BEGINNING THERE WAS A LITTLE GIRL WHO DREW CRAYON PICTURES... When I was little I was one of those happy children who smiled all the time.  I was the only child until I was four and my Mom loved me and my Dad loved me and they loved each other.   I can't really remember much from when I was tiny.  Given the opportunity to go through childhood all over again, I would snatch it with both hands and open my eyes so wide that I never forgot a single second of it.  The innocents are so beautiful.  I have a three and a half year old niece and what she cannot see and understand is so amazing, because all she can see are the happy things, the

Hard to convey the way someone appears when their eyes glaze over and they switch off all emotion.  They become this animal, controlled by frenzy and you become the object of attack.  An article in this scene of Technicolor, feeling no more able that a monotone production.  Arched up into a ball, pressed into a corner, gray against the red of someone you felt you used to know.  I can put my finger against all the bruises you caused me.  I can cry out and beg and ask that will the last person to leave me please turn out the light because I can't survive seeing this dented face anymore.