All around me, I see stories. In the crack of the sidewalk, I can see a dream that once was with suede shoes trotting on the worn gum paths. The owner of the shoes trying to find themselves through their fashion choices, but they find themselves somewhere they never wanted to. In the crack of a smile, I can peer through and sense that something is off and everything about them is a façade. Their brokenness shining through, but they choose to reach out and send love even though they’re an empty vessel. In the tremor of a hand, I brush my hands against the fragile cracks and veins and feel the wants and needs weaving in between each other. Lusts pushes you forward and you find yourself diving too fast and sinking becomes the end result. The strobing lights of the night linger on me, running its fingers down my shivering body and at the same time, I’m haunted by my past and future without ever feeling the rumble of the car. Down the hall, a vixen runs her fingernails along the walls, the traces of her sharp perfume wafts into my nose and her night life stuns and draws me in. What if I could have a double life, enabling my red lips and long legs to entrance men and at the same time, aim high at a prestigious university? The soft throbbing of dance music pulsing through the neighborhood and as I capture distinct beats, I wonder about the artist behind the piece and I wonder about the dancers and drinkers in the house, if they ever stop running. I know that I am. In the loud tones of my family, I can feel my hopes running dry, but even though this takes place right in front of me, I treat it as a façade.
The stories of the world whisper in my ears and I used to shiver from the mere contact of the words because they remained trapped in me. Things that could be, once were and will be haunt me and I stay put. In my left ear, it pulls me down saying that I could never be what I want to. In my right ear, it brushes its fingers against my cheek saying that I can do anything, I just have to leave and forget. The whispers and wishes of the world curse at me, spit at me and beat me to a pulp. They want it all, my life and my mind. Dare I be the lost hope? Dare I be the broken vessel? Dare I be full of lust and night lights? Dare I be the vixen? Endlessly, the whispering stories are like a curse to me – this was my call to claim the title of a writer.
Written: 1/16/17 2:11am