insecurity

festering beneath

blemished skin

comparable to

salt water

overflowing

my nostrils

and eyelids

attempting

to swim

in this bottomless

chasm

labeled

"disappointment"

a word

I've never grown

accustomed to

even though

she tore

my eardrums

apart

with her

repetitive usage

a word

I've never grown

accustomed to

even though

he spat it down

my throat

as his fingertips

scorched my cheeks

a word

I've never grown

accustomed to

even though

I've carved it

into my bones

carrying it

everywhere

I go

a simple

reminder

I've ceased my

futile attempts

at breathing

the ocean

begins gushing into

my scars

failure weighing

my body down

to the sea floor

ready to drown

death comes in all shapes and sizes

and I'm sorry mom

I'm really really sorry

the clouds are mourning us

and the rain doesn't feel the same anymore.

the house is destructive;

anxiety slicing into the room

like a razor blade kissing skin.

life really isn't fair,

and my prayers always start with,

"Why?"

and the tears have become a necessity,

without them,

something is wrong,

and I'm sorry mom

I'm really really sorry.

*dirty* is how i roll

black heart,

dark-adapted soul

ain't no other way,

slower traffic keep right, hey!

you see me comin down that dusty road,

best shift gears into rocket mode

only tellin' you once, my little friend

fuck this up and to your grave, i will send

so many words without a thought to date. i'm so sad for no reason and we think that's okay. i've heard great artistry stems from great pain. what if i'm stuck in some sort of numb state? my thoughts are broken but my words are spoken. funny how i've gained this endless devotion to describing descriptions of these bizarre depictions of mindless explanations of objective fictions. these aren't coherent realities. this is simply chaos organized on a page.

This week's guest blogger, Jennifer Probst, writes sexy, erotic contemporary romance.

She is the New York Times and USA Today bestselling author of The Marriage to a Billionaire Series and The Searching For Series including Searching for Someday and Searching for Perfect, among others.

Below is an article she wrote exclusively for the Prose community entitled, "The Beauty of Rejection."

I've been writing since I was eight years old. Completed my first young adult romance novel at 12. Wrote three more back to back (as my cousin once pointed out--no, I didn't date much!) and continued regularly after I graduated with a very proper business degree from college.

I wrote early mornings, weekends, and late at night. I wrote on lunch hours and plotted in the car. I wrote poetry, short stories, essays, reports, blog posts, novellas and full length novels. I dreamed of eventually becoming a full-time writer, but realized it would be a long journey to achieve such success.

Let's just say I've now been writing for over 30 years.

Three years ago, I had a break-out book that propelled me to the New York Times list and sold over a million copies. I was termed an "overnight" success. I've never laughed so hard at a term in my life. Because only I knew, along with close family and friends, how long my overnight success took to get noticed. Amidst my journey, I faced rejections. Oh, so many rejections!

When I was fourteen years old, I received my first official rejection letter from my submission of my young adult romance. Maybe even back then, I realized I'd reached a fork in the road and could choose between two paths. I could collapse into my own self doubts and pity, following that taunting voice that told me to quit because I'd never make it. Let's be honest - being a writer is hard. One that gets paid and makes a living even harder.

But I chose the other path. I posted the rejection letter on my wall so I was able to look at it every day while I wrote. Because it meant I was a real writer. I had completed a book. I had the guts to send it out. Yes, I was rejected, but I would try again. It was a challenge for me.

Some rejections along the way were harder than others. Some put me into bed for forty eight hours, wondering if I had the strength to continue writing. After such hard work, for so long, I'd still earned little money, spent every spare minute of my time penning words, and had no idea if I'd make it as a full-time writer.

One day, I returned home from work after an hour and a half commute at my day job. I had two young boys in diapers and I was exhausted. There, lying on the table, were two envelopes. I had created a short, humorous story on parenthood for two mainstream magazines and felt it was some of my best work. I felt in my soul I'd get my break. Finally! With trembling fingers, I ripped open the envelopes and found two form rejection letters.

So, I went to bed. Quit for a while. Let myself throw a pity party. It was good for me, because you also need to get in touch with those feelings first, so you are able to kick them to the literal curb when you're ready to get back to work.

It took me five full days to walk back into my makeshift office, with piles of laundry behind me, and kids toys, and my crickety chair that faced a wall with peeling paint.

But I got back to work.

Every time we write a story we get better. Every time we read a craft book, or attend a writer's conference, or dive into a new project, we grow. Writers write to make sense of the world around us, and scream We Were Here. It is our tiny slice of immortality. It is something we must do, again and again, so rejection is just part of the game. I made peace with myself years ago when I realized in my light bulb moment, I'd write forever - with or without publication.

Rejections are part of life, but being a writer means you have to reach deeper than most people. We are the creatives, but cannot break in a strong wind. We must bend as graceful and fluid as a willow - a flexible reed that will eventually end up straightening out again after the storm.

Use rejection as an indicator of growth. Of power. We will rarely regret the stories we penned, or the chances we took. We will only regret the words not written and the submissions we were too scared to send.

- Jennifer Probst

You can follow Jennifer on Twitter @jenniferprobst and be sure to visit her website by copying and pasting the following link into your web browser:

http://www.jenniferprobst.com

__________________________

This #MondayBlogs series seeks to educate readers and writers from the inside out. Have an idea for an article? Want to know more about a specific topic? Humor us! Submit your suggestions via private message here or visit the contact page: www.theprose.com/p/contact.

I have died inside, so many times, I wonder how many I have left– these lives. What drives me in an existence so seemingly lonely? Only seven years old, I fell in a pool and broke my ankle, my father didn’t believe it was legit, so he made me stand on it. That was the first time I remember feeling dead inside. Just alive and along for the ride.

At nine, I accidentally caught a quarter of an acre in our neighborhood on fire and felt another part of me expire. By twelve I tried to delve into riding no-hands on a bike, and like any parents worst fear, I was t-boned by a car revving up to second gear-- forty-five miles per hour and I showered them with glass, shattered by the back of my head. Dead. Not for the accident itself, but in concern of punishment for the medical bill. Still there were more ways to die.

No lie, not but a year later I ate asphalt with a front flip over my handle-bars. No stars, just a fractured thumb, some broken teeth, and hyper extended knee… yet that wasn’t even the worst to see. From my forehead past my lips, the gravel ground out dips, mangling the right side of my face. My smile reduced to a bloody broken mouth. Twin cried the second she saw me, before I’d even seen myself; already putting my emotions on the shelf-- but when I asked why she cried she didn’t bother trying to lie, “Have you seen you’re face?!”

It was a race to the bathroom to look at my reflection…which cause my heart to stall in rejection. Disbelief in the bloody gravel dug relief of my cheek, forehead and chin... angry red scrapes where my skin has been, making me briefly glad I hadn't let them touch my face. Though suddenly I dreaded getting back to my parents place.

In my case, I cost them a lot of money-- not that they didn't love me, but it was hard on them financially. As it was I had to get a ride home from another mother to begin with. I wasn't looking forward to any tiff with my parents, or their inter-argumentative interference.

Alas, they looked me over with guarded worry but didn’t think it bad enough to warrant immediate attention. Retention of these memories still cause pain and mental drain-- they sat and ate dinner while I waited in disdain to be taken to the hospital -- and it shredded my soul. Thirteen years old… I’d already died five times inside, and I’d die one more that night by causing a fright.

Torturous cleaning and bandaging aside, I was patched up and waiting by the front door of the hospital for the ride home. I was alone. A woman and her daughter, not but six, walked in. I made the mistake of smiling and the little girl started crying, wailing “I don’t want to go in there! No mommy! I don’t want to go in there!” and all I could do was stare. Broken inside and out. No doubt, I died again, but it wouldn’t be the last inner death of my life. Sometimes I think I was born for strife.

|| another-proser ||

my world isn’t all Dalmatians and Zebra’s,

not just black and white, spots or stripes,

but a plethora of infinite uniqueness

found within the infinite nuances

we have, and have yet to discover;

a singular perspective is just crumbs leftover.

-M.E.

201505050950

here's the thing:

we were always only ever half of an entity

and your arms never truly held me

more position than action

like holding hands with unlaced fingers

like kisses when your lips don't linger

the truth is we never were ever quite what we thought

and you were only ever just caught

We sat on the edge of the universe

In star lit Anaheim

Hating the county

Having a horrible time

Exhausted and lonely, I grabbed your hip

And in a passing moment of weakness

We kissed

I laid in bed that night shaking

Dreading the thought of waking

Guilt ridden heart a thudding bass drum

Afraid of the shit show to come

A soft skin sin under socal summer stars

Somethings decompressing

When we were undressing

But no ever gave out cigars

When you just give in to it

Youre never going to win for shit

Black Butterflies melt down to fears

Tears of joy remain to be tears

I sat outside on her porch

She told me she hated me

I hated myself, but i loved her

Poor decision and bad intuition it was wrong

And in a passing moment of weakness I wrote this song

I cried for weeks on end

My own wounds I had to mend

There was no excuse for my mistake

I hate that I made her heart break