Under a starlit sky I faced your blade

With an expression of stillwater.

The ripples of your own were numerous,

Far too many to count.

You were nervous. Only natural, you were nervous

Because this was the moment where you would kill me.

If you were not nervous,

I had a right to be concerned and upset

To be murdered by such an unfeeling monster.

If I must die,

Let me die by the most passionate hands,

The most conflicted, romantic hands one has ever had the pleasure of dying by.

You raised it an inch higher

Rather than bring it crashing against my porcelain chest.

So easily broken, so easily cracked, it would only take one movement.

One downward stroke of pure undiluted energy.

Energy that made me shiver with delight.

Please.

This way it wouldn’t be my fault.

No more dreaming of driving into a tree.

No more wishing for my plane to crash.

No more sobbing on that cold, unforgettable bathroom tile.

Your cheeks puffed out and you dropped the blade with a shudder.

You turned and ran.

Coward.

I sat on the ground, admiring the way the blade reflected the stars.

I cried and waited for you to return.

I never found anything about his eyes truly remarkable.

They were simple, they were nice,

No extraordinary mixture of otherworldly colors.

But somehow,

Someway,

He saw the truth better than anyone else.

The stars, brighter.

The sky, broader.

The world, larger.

And when he looked at me,

I knew he was looking into my very soul

And smiling because of what he saw.

What he saw inside of me.

I never found anything about his eyes truly remarkable.

But through them, he found me remarkable.

And that’s enough.

Purple was the way she walked.

Blue was the way she smiled.

Her yellow soul shined brighter than the sun

And her red mind struggled to make sense of her confoundingly green heart.

Pulled directly towards that poor excuse for a lump of coal.

She cried pure gold

Onto his shoulder,

As sharp as a freshly cut diamond,

Leaving a rusty scar along her silver cheek.

Pain was a blinding rainbow of screams and laughter and unimaginable sorrow.

She would have left it all

For a moment of translparent clarity.

A silent room with silent people and a whisper enters my ear.

“They’re thinking about you. They’re judging you. You're hair is messed up. They know you don't feel comfortable."

I mess with the front of my shirt and readjust the sleeves of my blazer. This is the interview that may decide the next ten years of my life. This matters. But the whisper comes back, louder now.

"You have no shot. You're not prepared. You will never get this job. Never."

I'm itching. I need to move, run, run away. The whisper fills my brain and the world around me turns foggy. No longer am I in a room. I'm in my own mind, and I'm trapped. It is dark and dangerous and the whisper has transformed into a horrible monster.

Fangs and claws and acid dripping from every pore. It stopped whispering. It started shouting.

In my head I scream back, but in reality I scream at nothing. They call the police, and I scream at nothing.

I scream at nothing, forever, and they call me mad.

He thought he was funny. He thought he was God’s gift to mankind, strutting around like some overgrown, sleazy peacock. He expected everyone to fall at his feet, to kiss the ground he walked upon, to kiss him whenever he wanted them to.

I wanted to. For a little bit, I couldn’t help but melt when he smiled at him. His smile had enough power to light up an entire city. I fell to my knees and worshipped him. Worshipped him with all that I had. My entire being belonged to him. Heart and mind and soul and self. It was his.

When he left, there wasn’t much of a warning. He told me he kissed that other girl. He told me we just were not working out anymore. Nothing was up to me. It was never my decision.

I still had his sweatshirt. It smelled like him; egotistical and pompous. It’s as if the moment he ended things, the smoke cleared. I saw him for what he was, and I found myself to be thoroughly disgusted.

I kept his sweatshirt. I kept the pair of sunglasses he had bought for me during our trip to the beach. I kept the post-it note he had written for me one morning, wishing me a good day at work. I kept the pillow in the shape of a heart he gave me for our two month anniversary.

I took it all to my backyard. I lit the firepit.

I threw it all in the fire. I burnt the sweatshirt, the sunglasses, the note, the pillow. I burnt it all and finally, after weeks of wailing and crying and screaming, I smiled.

Never again would I be taken advantage of. Never again would I be weak enough to fall for a pretty face.

I am strong. I am independent. I am reborn.

I can do this.