you write such pretty words, but life's no storybook...
something i wrote...
>>>red overcoats and ashtrays <<<
She walked out her front door, closed it behind her, and forgot to lock it.
The sky was a bright lapis lazuli patterned with cotton-like clouds. She placed her hand on her purse in hope of stopping the trepidation of her fingers.
She inhaled the sweet air of the subtle morning, still standing on her front step. Her vacillation over what to do next was frustrating, so she walked down to the driveway and unlocked her car.
Its seats were a very specific gray, one that matched the shade of her eyes.
The seats absorbed her vapid soul when she situated herself upon them. She put the key into the ignition and turned it. The vivacious eagerness of the engine to become alive made her slightly envious.
She realized her breath was still visible, so she turned the heat on high and the radio to a comfortably loud volume. Its frequencies played out notes that reminded her of someone.
The same someone who said her personality was too volatile and her looks were too vitriolic.
But she never took umbrage to his remarks because she knew her emotions were unbridled and her hair was unkempt, as always.
And it still was.
So she began to analyze herself because today she looked brilliant in that red coat and with her eyes painted black. She drank too much coffee and she had a bad habit of being verbose when no words were needed.
And she was a virtuoso at vilifying her cuticles and such. And her subconscious mind was quite subversive in itself, which created undulations of emotion that poured from her eyes or her mouth.
And she preferred lovers that were far from urbane, simply because their thoughts were more interesting, like those of side roads.
And she said and far too often.
She glanced at herself in the mirror and saw a face that looked on the brink of no longer being viable. The days were charted by her surreptitious habit of throwing up water, which she considered to be more of a necessity than a habit.
The radio was still singing out and the heat had filled the whole car. So she took her eyes off of her wasted face, which was still captivating in its beauty regardless, and put the car in reverse.
While she inched out of her driveway a realization overcame her, which immediately paused her departure. She had nowhere to go. She never did. And it wasn’t a day for aimless driving.
The taste of salt tainted her lips and that was when she noticed she had been crying ever since the radio had first played their song. Not having anywhere to go, to be, was a despondent fact that showed itself to her everyday.
So she switched the car into drive and pulled back into the driveway.
She tore the keys from their destined place in the ignition and then achingly got out of the car.
Her radiant red coat was hung back in the closet and her purse was set on the table by the door.
She watched each foot as they took her up the staircase.
And she climbed back into bed with the someone who loved her unkempt hair and volatile personality.
>>>red overcoats and ashtrays <<<
She walked out her front door, closed it behind her, and forgot to lock it.
The sky was a bright lapis lazuli patterned with cotton-like clouds. She placed her hand on her purse in hope of stopping the trepidation of her fingers.
She inhaled the sweet air of the subtle morning, still standing on her front step. Her vacillation over what to do next was frustrating, so she walked down to the driveway and unlocked her car.
Its seats were a very specific gray, one that matched the shade of her eyes.
The seats absorbed her vapid soul when she situated herself upon them. She put the key into the ignition and turned it. The vivacious eagerness of the engine to become alive made her slightly envious.
She realized her breath was still visible, so she turned the heat on high and the radio to a comfortably loud volume. Its frequencies played out notes that reminded her of someone.
The same someone who said her personality was too volatile and her looks were too vitriolic.
But she never took umbrage to his remarks because she knew her emotions were unbridled and her hair was unkempt, as always.
And it still was.
So she began to analyze herself because today she looked brilliant in that red coat and with her eyes painted black. She drank too much coffee and she had a bad habit of being verbose when no words were needed.
And she was a virtuoso at vilifying her cuticles and such. And her subconscious mind was quite subversive in itself, which created undulations of emotion that poured from her eyes or her mouth.
And she preferred lovers that were far from urbane, simply because their thoughts were more interesting, like those of side roads.
And she said and far too often.
She glanced at herself in the mirror and saw a face that looked on the brink of no longer being viable. The days were charted by her surreptitious habit of throwing up water, which she considered to be more of a necessity than a habit.
The radio was still singing out and the heat had filled the whole car. So she took her eyes off of her wasted face, which was still captivating in its beauty regardless, and put the car in reverse.
While she inched out of her driveway a realization overcame her, which immediately paused her departure. She had nowhere to go. She never did. And it wasn’t a day for aimless driving.
The taste of salt tainted her lips and that was when she noticed she had been crying ever since the radio had first played their song. Not having anywhere to go, to be, was a despondent fact that showed itself to her everyday.
So she switched the car into drive and pulled back into the driveway.
She tore the keys from their destined place in the ignition and then achingly got out of the car.
Her radiant red coat was hung back in the closet and her purse was set on the table by the door.
She watched each foot as they took her up the staircase.
And she climbed back into bed with the someone who loved her unkempt hair and volatile personality.