United States

Ridiculously self- pressured, hopelessly (and unsuccessfully) in love for three years, and scared to write the things that matter. And that’s me on a good day . Good luck.

Message from Writer

“Here’s some advice- stay alive.” Haymitch Abernathy
“I make mistakes, I am out of control and at times hard to handle. But if ... But if you can't handle me at my worst, then you sure as hell don't deserve me at my best.”- Marilyn Monroe
“A girl should be two things: who and what she wants.”- Coco Chanel

Red as Blood

January 28, 2021


Her hands are red.
 Not the stunning red of dawn breaking, or the ruddy, healthy red of her mother’s cheeks when she spends all day at her oven. 
 Deep, venomous, red-as-a-living-heart-wrenched-out-of-your-chest red
This is blood red. 
And she is stuck in the middle of it, a living doll in a cocoon of color.
 There is no one else who can see it. 
People walk around her, but they are all coated in it, bulbous figures with wide, gaping eyes and fingers that point much too often.
 She hates them. 
There is a man at the blackboard, writing numbers. 
Only, he is so far away. 
The girl comes closer and closer, fighting off the nausea that she feels every time the rolls of red wash over her.
He looks clear, filled with colors that she has never seen, will never see
 If she can’t force her eyes to focus just a bit more... 
Closer now. 
The colors are almost visible, but then they are not. 
The numbers are still here. 
They dance around her, filled with folly and mirth at their newest victim. 
The man is gone, he was only an illusion, 
A peaceful break from the crimson torture.
 She cries. 
The Numbers make no sense, they try to consume her
Each one worms its slimy, two dimensional body into her, stabbing her with vertices and edges that materialize, one after another. 
They are infinite and they will never leave. 
For the rest of her life, she knows they will be there.
They take away the red, drain her of the pitiful thing she once was. 
Her organs are gone.
Replaced with numbers, functions, and letters. 
Everything is black and white now. 
The people laughing are gone, now they avoid her like the plague. 
There is something that she is missing, 
She is not quite Right in the Head. 
They only wanted to make her cry. 
Now she is an empty shell, creeping throughout the world without a purpose. 
Others make plans to leave, but there is no use for her.
 For she is only a number, 
right up until the day
 Her number is called. 


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  • January 28, 2021 - 11:52am (Now Viewing)

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