Offer

What do I have to offer?

You asked me that before. And strangely, a question that I’ve been asking myself multiple times.

What do I have to offer?

Is this what everything has come down to?

This question.

Life sometimes is all about selling yourself, to future employers, to friends, to family. The idea that we are of some sort of individual worth, worthy of the time of others, worthy of a friendship, worthy of love.

We are attracted to those who we deem equal to ourselves, and we make ourselves out to seem the equal of others. It is natural, to want to be able to hold your head high as you walk alongside a friend, a partner, a colleague.

What happens when all self-worth is washed away?

Is this truly what life is?

A barter system?

Can I not care for you for who you are, for the presence you have in my life? No more, no less, not for the friendship you give me, not for the shoulder of support that you offer me, not for the like minded intellect that we share, but for the simple emotions that you evoke within, for the simple fact that I like you for yourself, the instinctive part of myself that responds to you.

I care for the person that you are.

But perhaps, that in itself, is the only thing that I am able to offer at the moment to all who are in my life.

But is that enough?

Matter

Lies, lies and even more lies.

Rumours, spreading like wildfire.
Like the seven heads of the Hydra, as Hercules himself futilely tried to cut them, one at a time
Only to have two spring in its place.
Like ripples in a pond, only nowhere near as beautiful.
But twisted the further it goes
Twisted.

Darkness, and blessed oblivion
Let the darkness wash over me
For perhaps I am not worth the light.

Blessed sleep
And beautiful illusions
Of a time that was not quite there
Nothing more but a beautiful tale
A tale like no others
With its twists and turns
Just another tale a long long time ago.
Was it a story?
Was it my story?

Did you love me?
Do you love me?
Will you love me?

Betrayal and broken trust
A nameless hurt
A faceless enemy

Damn you who have self righteously put it upon yourself
Was it yours to tell?
Who are you to hurt those who are my flesh and blood?

My mistakes should be my own
Not my family
Not my parents
And damn you to hell for that.

Who are you?

Who are you indeed?

May your soul burn in hell
Forgiveness is no longer in me.

The Bitch Strikes Back

Get out of my face.

Don’t tell me you didn’t see this coming.

It’s been kept under control for so long, the emotions carefully watered down to the diplomacy, the tact and the attempt at walking through someone else’s shoes; shoved neatly into a bottle capped tightly, oh so tightly.

I never feel the need to say out the things I want to say. I always feel as if nothing comes out of the anger, that nothing comes out of provoking someone else.

It’s like the concept of bear baiting. Cruel, heartless and useless. That’s what anger is like to me.

But I acknowledge it.

And now it’s on the loose, and I feel no need to censor my words.

It feels good to release that.

The things I will never say because I know how they hurt.

There’s a part of me which is cruel, which knows exactly the words to say to make you feel like you’re the smallest thing on earth. There’s a part of me with words that drip with poison, with words like a knife between the ribs slowly twisting away with every small motion.

But that is only a part of my anger.

It’s that heady rush, of knowing that it’s okay to immerse myself in that red haze, to feel the pulsing of the blood through my veins, to let that sea of violence wash over me.

Because I am violent.

You never knew. None of you did.

I could easily punch your face, feel my fist connect with the area with the most fragile bones, if only because my aim is destruction. The urge to grab your arm and snap it over my knee with such force that the bone breaks the skin, is on occasion, a tempting one. To run my nails down your body as deeply as I am able to and laugh at the blood dripping down.

Get out of my life.

I hate it that you feel the self-righteous need to be a part of mine, to interfere in the processes of my decisions, you self-meddlesome fuck. You can play the part of the helpless victim all you want as well, to run away from the responsibilities that you carry, but you’re only avoiding standing up to the eyes of the world about your own immaturity and crushed ego. Your smile is a mask of a two headed serpent, and if I could erase you from my life, I would.

You can go fuck yourselves so hard up the ass that you paralyze yourself for life.

And I’ll just laugh and be on my way.

Bitches.

A Love Story Owed

“Have you ever imagined your heel getting stuck in the tram tracks?

Imagine that happening. Then a handsome stranger dashes by and helps you untangle yourself. And that will be the beginning of your love story.”

I couldn’t help but smile at the image of a modern day prince charming. Not quite the white horse, but apparently shining armour didn’t quite go out of style.

“Now tell me one. Tell me my love story.”

For the life of me, I couldn’t come up with anything original. Either that, or every romantic movie known to mankind had already covered the plots I’d come up with, and you had watched every single one of those movies.

So let me tell you your love story now, now that you’ve left, now that we’re separated by sea. Your love story has no plot, no where’s and wherefore’s. It is just a story, of two who met and fell in love.

This is your love story.

You’re waiting.

You glance at your watch in frustration. It’s been an hour and she’s yet to show up, with no warning, no apologies, no nothing.

The sound of footsteps.

Finally.

You anticipate her coming and grab her shoulder as she rounds the corner.

She’s shocked and she drops the files she’s been holding, and you realize in embarrassment that it’s not the girl you’ve been waiting for. Your face flushes; apologies fall from your lips as you help her to pick up her things, and then your eyes meet.

And you realize that perhaps, she really was the one you’ve been waiting for.

The first encounter was hazy, embarrassing and absolutely out of your control. How you even managed to set up a second encounter you had no idea, but somehow it happened, and you were determined to show her your best traits, to be the most dashing you could be, to be the modern day knight in armour.

Somehow, your grand plans fell to pieces the next time you laid your eyes on her again.

You felt like every intelligent thought you possessed had flown out of your head, and that encounter too, passed by in some sort of daze.

You only remembered the little things.

The way she smelt. The way she tilted her head slightly to look up at you. She made you laugh without you even realizing it, or without even realizing why, but you knew that she seemed to enjoy your laughter, and you just wanted to see her smile.

She brought out your protective instincts, and you wanted to love her and cherish her, to protect her against all the evils of the world and make sure that no one would harm her, all in the first hour. You found yourself enjoying simple conversation more than you ever had in awhile, but perhaps the conversation wasn’t as interesting as listening to her talk, as watching the expressions that flitted past her face as she animatedly jumped from topic to topic.

You wanted to hold her in your arms, and keep her close to you, to listen to her heartbeat as you both fell asleep. You wanted to buy her flowers every day of the week and do a hundred and one other sappy, romantic things that you’d watched in the movies, if only she would be yours.

And then, as she turned around and walked to the bathroom, you realized she had the best ass as well, and that clinched the deal.

And then you realized, with trepidation, that you had fallen madly, head over heels in love.

Shit.