A Carter & Serena Drabble: We Invented Ourselves Along The Way
We Invented Ourselves Along The Way
By: Megan
She’s subscribed to fairy tales since she was six, a by-product of the city of Manhattan. It was the small country in which the golden wild child inhabited, cushioned from the rough edges of reality. The kingdom strung with lights that she once held in her fragile palms.
His life was wrecked with selfish single-serving chapters of women and cards and liqueur. The playboy continually got played; after all he always defended himself as a lover, not a fighter. But maybe it was because he never held on to anything worth fighting for. (He would admit this to himself whenever he looked at a mirror in one of the many countless five star hotels he stayed in; his reflection shattered with self-loathing.)
Accidents of nature and slips of faith led him into the moonlit, midnight garden of Manhattan and into her gentle arms, and her tiny white hands; ones that he thought he could have grasped tightly forever simply bottling up the truth in little boxes and putting them in the back of a very dark closet, creating variables of change to simply keep her there and constant.
Her wings were clipped at a very early age, father figures passed by on an express line, too many to chose from, also generic and not good enough. If you peeled apart all of her demons that created and colored her heart allergic to love, you would have too many to add to an already very long list.
He was the catalyst in her plight of accidental suicide; always a social scene away from self-destruction and a night of binge drinking and countless limbs and meaningless sex. He was the embodiment of happiness and warmth for a short while; it was almost an out of body experience for her, as if she was watching her own life through a vintage Super-8 camera. And she wondered if it would last.
He wanted to keep her in the dark forever, but with a clock ticking and the truth spilling out at an obnoxiously fast pace, it was inevitable. Whenever she ran from him, he crashed back into her, and as she so mercilessly and pathetically clung to him he knew that if he stayed apologies would have spilled from his lips like nerves from his brain that was shattered so long ago with the mere thought of her timeless beauty; and a man simply had to hang onto his dignity.
Without him, she was an upper crust tragedy set on the loose, realizing the magnitude of exactly what they meant with heartbreaking clarity, burning up the black space in her stomach and her head.
They never were what they intended; yet they managed to invent themselves along the way.
Please review. :)
By: Megan
She’s subscribed to fairy tales since she was six, a by-product of the city of Manhattan. It was the small country in which the golden wild child inhabited, cushioned from the rough edges of reality. The kingdom strung with lights that she once held in her fragile palms.
His life was wrecked with selfish single-serving chapters of women and cards and liqueur. The playboy continually got played; after all he always defended himself as a lover, not a fighter. But maybe it was because he never held on to anything worth fighting for. (He would admit this to himself whenever he looked at a mirror in one of the many countless five star hotels he stayed in; his reflection shattered with self-loathing.)
Accidents of nature and slips of faith led him into the moonlit, midnight garden of Manhattan and into her gentle arms, and her tiny white hands; ones that he thought he could have grasped tightly forever simply bottling up the truth in little boxes and putting them in the back of a very dark closet, creating variables of change to simply keep her there and constant.
Her wings were clipped at a very early age, father figures passed by on an express line, too many to chose from, also generic and not good enough. If you peeled apart all of her demons that created and colored her heart allergic to love, you would have too many to add to an already very long list.
He was the catalyst in her plight of accidental suicide; always a social scene away from self-destruction and a night of binge drinking and countless limbs and meaningless sex. He was the embodiment of happiness and warmth for a short while; it was almost an out of body experience for her, as if she was watching her own life through a vintage Super-8 camera. And she wondered if it would last.
He wanted to keep her in the dark forever, but with a clock ticking and the truth spilling out at an obnoxiously fast pace, it was inevitable. Whenever she ran from him, he crashed back into her, and as she so mercilessly and pathetically clung to him he knew that if he stayed apologies would have spilled from his lips like nerves from his brain that was shattered so long ago with the mere thought of her timeless beauty; and a man simply had to hang onto his dignity.
Without him, she was an upper crust tragedy set on the loose, realizing the magnitude of exactly what they meant with heartbreaking clarity, burning up the black space in her stomach and her head.
They never were what they intended; yet they managed to invent themselves along the way.
Please review. :)