January 12 -- Write about acceptable losses.

As a kid, I was particularly clumsy (some things never change). I fell down a lot, would hurt myself, thought this never prevented me from going on more adventures the moment a Band-Aid was attached to my skin. Up a tree, through the woods, in the swamp -- wherever I hadn't been before, or else the places I loved most.
Whenever I would get a scrape, or a bruise, or a cut, I remember always pressing on the wound, fascinated by the pain I could both start and stop like one would with a car. If I pushed down on a paper cut with my finger, it would throb with awful purple and gray pain. But just as quickly, as I released the pressure, the hurt would dissipate. Never all at once -- there were always lingering aches. Sure enough, though, if I waited patiently, it would soon be as if the stinging had never occurred.
Until I brought it back.

I guess you could say that he was my paper cut.
I could never seem to fully appreciate how much pain he caused me unless I was with him. I was in control of the situation, too -- It was always me who said when. When to be together, when to break up. But I never could stop pressing down on that paper cut, forcing myself to feel the old pain again, with its strange comfort in familiarity, knowing that for once, I was in control of some aspect of my life. I was Shiva, able to create and destroy on a whim. I guess a part of me loved that power, as much as it tore up the rest of me.

My mom always told me, "Stop messing with your cuts, or they'll get infected." Rarely did I listen, but I escaped unscathed more often than not. Until him. Sometimes wounds don't enjoy being toyed with, and he had had enough. A simple fascination somehow turned to love, but the infection had already begun and was spreading, straight towards my heart. There was that hitch in time where my heart is convinced that the world is ending, but the brain shares the awful news that the world is not ending, as much as I want it to.
I felt confused, diseased, dying. The superficial wound had caused violent illness throughout my body, a genocide on my thoughts, a decaying of my dreams. I swore I would never let this happen again.

Some naive part of me, the part that always has faith in others, the part that never learns -- She's always encouraging me, saying, "Maybe if you keep pressing down, don't let up, it'll stop hurting by itself." I have to remind myself that she doesn't know any better, not like I do.
The more dangerous voice is that of my self-degrading mindset. Claiming that I don't deserve any better, so why not take what I can get? Sure, it may destroy me someday...But at least I won't be alone.
It's never easy to shut down the different opinions in one's mind, but it must be done. The heart must drown out the head, so to speak. Yes, the scar of him is still there. It will occasionally demand my attention for a few minutes. My gaze may stray to it on an unforgiving nostalgic evening.
I just have to put on a Band-Aid, keep living my adventures, and wait for time to heal it.

argh.

I've attempted to sit down and write probably five times recently, and it just...all goes to hell.

I feel like I've lost something, and I can't seem to find it through the written word lately.
Which kills me, because I love writing, and I don't know what I'll do without it...

Hopefully I get back on track soon.

~Amber

January 11 -- "You are in a motel room."

"I-I-I've never done this before," he stammered shyly, looking down at the carpet of room 14. He looked quickly back up, disturbed by the sheer number of mystery stains.
She chuckled and put her cigarette out on the bedside table. "If it makes you feel better, we can pretend I haven't, either." She was across the room in three strides with her arms around his neck. "Don't worry, honey. When we're done, you'll be a regular pro. I'll make sure of it."
She took the hundred dollar bill out of his hand and placed it beside the now-cold ashes before shoving him down on the squeaky hotel bed, climbing on top of him. With new-found confidence, he flipped her over onto her back and untied the neck of her halter.
"And here I thought I was gonna get a beginner," she smiled. He ignored the fact that a front tooth was missing. "Tell me, Mr. Expert, anything kinky for you today?"
Full minutes passed as he gazed at her hungrily. "Yes," he whispered in an unnatural tone. She didn't like this change of character, so she attempted to slide away.
"Listen, uh, I have an appointment with a senator, so I had better ge--"
His hands were around her neck, squeezing and pressing so that she couldn't breathe. Her eyes bulged as realization and lack of oxygen hit her. She tried punching his harms, scratching and tugging at his hands, but to no avail. His weight pressed down on her legs so she could barely move even her feet. Screaming was impossible, as was escape.
It took one minute and thirty-two seconds for her to die. When she finally gave in to his will, he released her neck, caressed her face. "You're so beautiful," he whispered in her ear.
Then he silently removed his clothing and made love to her, gently.

[[photo here]]

January 8 -- "It's what I do in the middle of the night."

I avoid the hour at which I must sleep practically every night. I know what will come with the closing of my eyes, and it is an inevitability I would prefer to miss.

When there's nothing left to occupy my mind, I'm forced to think.
I despise it. I think about those I have lost along the way. I remember mistakes I've made, people who used me (and I let them).
I think about loneliness and how I wish it would somehow go away.
Mostly, though, I ponder the "what-if's".
What if I never find someone who loves me?
What if something happens so I can't get my degree?
What if all my plans and goals fall apart?

That's when it gets worse...
My habit of writing scripts in my head becomes an absolute horror.
I picture my grandfather having a heart attack.
My daddy in a car crash.
My mom shot by a robber in some store.
The most terrifying ones are of my baby brother. It is my ultimate fear, that something will happen to him, especially while I'm so far away.
I've spent more than an hour crying over an image in my mind of something happening to him. I would never be able to handle it.

I wish there was a way to shut off my brain along with the bedroom light.

[[photo here]]

February 14 -- "Write about a night sky."

“I wonder why the stars are always most beautiful when it’s so cold,” I mused.

“Because we’re the only ones crazy enough to stay outside anyway.” She laughed and held me tighter. Whispered in my ear, “And then we get the whole universe to ourselves.”

That's all I wanted to write for this one.

I thought it was sort of perfect. :)

[[photo here]]

No date -- Just a memory.

I always hear people say that a year really isn't a long time. To someone whose entire life can take a turn in the opposite direction within two weeks, I'd have to disagree.

It's Valentine's Day today. I remember a year ago, when life was what I had convinced myself I wanted. I didn't.
Kellie took me out to dinner at the nicest restaurant in town (though that's not saying much). I couldn't say what we ate or what we wore or what I was thinking. I probably wasn't thinking at all. She did that for me.
We took a walk on the docks before the Sweetheart Dance. That's when she told me a story about a dream she had had. I was there for her the day her grandmother died. And in her dream, Kellie's grandmother told her that I was the one, and she shouldn't let me go.
So Kellie opened a small box, revealing a gold heart-shaped necklace with diamonds and rubies along the sides. A little piece of paper cut into another heard read, "Marry me." And she looked at me expectantly.
My first thought was, "I don't wear gold." Followed by a superficial bubbling of joy, which spilled over into my ecstatic response of "YES!!" More than anything, I remember my heart filling with a sensation from the core outward...Ice. I could literally feel my heart freezing into this complacent lie. There was no escaping anymore.
I spent every moment that night feigning happiness as I informed my friends of the big news. It was interesting to note those who knew me well enough to look at me suspiciously. Some even asked if this was what I really wanted. I doubt any of them believed me, but they left it alone.
I could still feel my heart in my chest, barely able to beat once it had become like crystal, frozen over and fragile enough to shatter at a word. I told myself it was fear of commitment. Truly it was terror of spending a lifetime with her. She was already forcing me to devote every iota of my spare time to her. What happened when we lived together, were legally bound? Would I ever get away from her bitter shouts, angry admonishments, over-played apologies, painful grip on my wrists?

I came to my senses a couple weeks later. Thank God. I would probably be dead by now, by her or my own hand.
I still have that necklace. It's on my bulletin board at this very moment. Maybe I'll sell it someday (I always wondered if it's real).
But until then, it serves as a reminder of a time when I was almost willing to let go of myself, this beautiful person I knew I could be, in order to live the twisted storybook romance I wanted to believe in, when really I was trapped in a nightmare.

I sometimes regret "wasting" a year of my life with her. Then I recall how much I learned about myself, and the life I'm going to live. That's something I couldn't trade.

January 7 -- "Once, when no one was looking..."

Once,
when no one was looking,
you asked for a promise
in my ear.
The dark concealed tears
when I needed it most --
but you could hear them
falling
as yes trembled
from terrified lips.

Words
are never easy
when slipped from the heart,
despite being said
countless times before.

I don't think
I could ever forget
such a powerful promise
broken.



[[photo here]]

January 6 -- "Write about bathing."

She hadn't been in the tub 20 seconds before she was swimming in crimson.
But that didn't matter much.
Allie laid in the bath for hours, not moving save for involuntary shakes, trying to forget the horrors that had just occurred.

Once her mind had cleared of irrationality, Allie got out of her tub without pausing to drain it, cover herself, or even dry off.

Go back to what you know when you're unsure. So she did. Allie made a list.

- Burn
- chop up, cook, feed to strays
- dump in lake/dumpster/own apt.
- turn self in
- kill self

Decisions, decisions...She obviously wasn't great at making those.



[[picture here]]

January 5 -- "Write about a day moon."

I don't like this.
i don't feel inspired by this.

NEXT!!

:)

Not tonight

I don't feel up to it tonight.
To post, to write, to think, to breathe....
Not tonight.

~Amber

January 4 - "A year after your death..."

I'll still be looking for you
a year after your death.
Searching for that heart
that you never found yourself.
It has to be out there --
every person gets one.
But wherever you lost yours
is a place if infinite secrecy.
Have faith -- I will find it
and return it to you,.
wherever you may be
(as cold as I fear it is).

A year after your death,
I'll still be looking for you
and the heart you lost
while looking for me.


[[photo here]]

January 3 - "You're standing in a doorway."

She was never very good at the simpler tasks. Give her Shakespeare, it would be analyzed in minutes. A gourmet recipe could be cooked to perfection the first time around. The woman could drive along the Outer Banks smack-dab in the middle of a nor'easter without hydroplaning once.

But the easy things? Like clearing her throat to make her presence known. Pulling back on the doorknob to close it again. Stepping out the doorway, walking the 23 steps to her blue Miata, and leaving -- for good this time. Those were efforts with which she struggled.

It wasn't difficult to identify the long-haired brunette, with her condescending eyes and well-timed moans. No surprise there.
The only surprising aspect of the entire ordeal was a passionate and faithful relationship being torn apart because he was allowing it to be. But...for what?
It wasn't sex -- he was already getting that.
Can't have been love -- he didn't even like her that much.
And God knows it wasn't intellectual conversation. The bitch had the IQ of George Bush, yet often knew just the right thing to say.

So she stood there. Watching. Attempting to establish what exactly was so terrible about her that would drive him into the arms of such a worthless creature.

Bet he doesn't know either.


[[photo here]]

January 2 - "Write about a time someone said no."

They say that alcohol consumption is a "get out of jail free" card for a hundred taboo circumstances. Don't get me wrong, I believe that it does lower inhibitions. But it's still you in there. Watching things as they happen. Trying to stop them.

"Come on. We both know this is going to happen." His hands were on me, all over me, pulling my clothes off faster than I could attempt to keep them on. By the time I grabbed my shirt from his hands, my bra had been unsnapped; as I struggled to snap it back, he'd undone my jeans and started yanking them down. It was a strange sensation, having so many voices in my head at once. The playful drunk: "Well, you've done it before, so it makes no sense to say no this time." The therapist: "If you don't want to, you shouldn't." The peacemaker: "If you hurt his feelings, your friends won't all be able to hang out."
So the consensus was for me to be playfully serious in a kind way. "Nooo," I giggled. "No, we can't! Stop!" I laughed again.
Not that it worked. Eventually he got frustrated with my admonishments. "Look, we're drunk, and we want to fuck. Let's do this."
I remember him seeming angry. This was only my second time drunk, and the first time, I hadn't bothered to attempt saying no.

I doubt he noticed my tears. Maybe he thought it was just some of the sweat dripping off his face and splashing onto mine. It's all salt anyway.

I recall that I had to throw up. "Too much vodka," I said in apology. Could be. Or I was disgusted with his forceful coercion and manipulative hands. More likely I was sick with myself. Another foolish girl being handed cup after cup until she lacks the strength to say no.

Well, I did say no. It just didn't count for much.


[[photo here]]

January 1 - "Write about Sunday afternoon."

Trembling hands
burn for more rain
on a shingled rooftop and windowpane.
There were two empty seats
in the pew two rows back,
but the Lord is understanding
and He always forgives.
What a way
to spend a Sunday afternoon
[fresh from Sunday morning
dozens of whispers ago]
with nothing but
unparalleled desire
and a desperate hunger
to last the unforgettable hours
between dawn and eternity.

[[photo from here]]

book of days

So I have this book.
It's called A Writer's Book of Days: A Spirited Companion & Lively Muse for the Writing Life by Judy Reeves.
It gives writing tips and daily writing exercises.
I just got it, so I'm about a month behind, but I'm trying to do 2 a day until I get caught up.

I have never considered myself a great writer.
But I love it, and I want to keep writing, so this is my motivation.
These are going to be UNedited as well, please keep this in mind.
They're just exercises, so I'm just putting down my thoughts on paper and going from there.