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R.j.Elsewhere

Australia

In every bit of truth, my writing is pretty terrible and by being here, I hope to improve it. Anyways, all you have to know about me is that I love coffee, my cat, and food, and of course, writing and reading. And I hate the way 'Lemon' is spelt.

Message from Writer

Say it, and risk the humiliation; scream it, or whisper, or write it - even paint it on your skin. Just say it . All you're afraid to speak, do it with a shaky voice, and small trembling hands - and say it. Say it with your last breath, be it faint, and whisper thin, or meet death quietly. Let it fall off your lips, and rid the air of its emptiness. Say it. I am a nerd.

Cold Hard Cash

January 20, 2019

FREE WRITING

6
She had skinny fingers that bore the shape of keys, something that was fitting for my love – that was all locked-shaped and bolted shut. On days like yesterday – I would hope she’d break me in two with them, and strip back my ribs one by one – until she tore apart the cage of my heart, unlocking it.

I am the boy who grew up on the wrong side of the tracks. My world is one of death and dim; one where money makes it go around, and a bullet makes it stop. One not so lovely. So trust me when I say, I know the rarity that is true beauty; swimming in the ocean at baybreak, readying indoors by the fire while it rained, each waxing of the moon, the unknown in the stars and the curiosity of space, the universe in itself, and her, with her freckled skin and round hips – are all true but rare beauties.

I met her once late at night after a job. With new lips, she kissed my bloody knuckles into forgiveness, and we made love in the mercy of her bed, in between the pardon of her sheets.

I was her seeker, and she, my asylum.

When I tried to quit smoking, she sat by the window with me and took the quake from out my bones just by the gentle of her hands upon mine (until her, I never knew that touch could bear love and care). The next day we danced the living room dead in our underwear, drinking peach-tea out of mason jars and miming the words to Hey, Jude. She called my green eyes celery – I called her moles chocolate kisses. After that I knew I loved her. So, so much.

But she was daddies up town girl. And I was the boy with prison deep in his eyes.

And when they asked for her head on a silver platter – I knew that I didn’t love her that much.

Because let’s face it, no matter how soul-taking she was, I will always love money more.
Think about going on a break soon - just for a week or two. Keep you updated if so. 

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3 Comments
  • paperbird

    no words can describe how much i love this. the first sentence, comparing fingers to keys, sucked me in. i couldn't stop reading, honestly. so many lines are my favorites--"i am the boy who grew up on the wrong side of the tracks", "i was her seeker and she, my asylum", "and i was the boy with prison deep in his eyes", and, of course, the last sentence. i'm not usually into love stories, but this is one gone wrong, and i liked it better for that. unusual but breathtaking.


    8 months ago
  • loveletterstosappho

    the first paragraph stole my breath. incredible.


    8 months ago
  • RNE

    Woah.. I think I just died.


    8 months ago