My Decision, Dammit.

My Decision, Dammit.

How romantic would it be to call myself a writer? It seems so much more supple an answer than ‘a mom’ or ‘a student’ or ‘a freeloading wise ass’. ‘Oh, I’m a writer’, said nonchalantly even though my insides would be fluttering about wildly as the words left my lips. I’m a very pessimistic person, and I don’t think that my writing is that good. Sometimes, I write something that I’m proud of here on this blog, and someone says I’m a great writer in the comments and my heart swells, but then I read another blog, an entry that to me is not very good, and the people in the comments are fawning over how wonderful of a writer that person is and it knocks me back down into…
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Tempestuous Love.

Tempestuous Love.

I rip out my heart and hand it to him. It’s pulsating and blanketed in pus, infected from all of the unhealed wounds inflicted upon it over the years. He stands with it cradled in his palms, cupping it tightly like de León would have water from The Fountain of Youth: determined not to let a drop spill. He watches it beat, brings it up to eye level and studies its languid rhythm, watching it steadily slow and become irregular. He smirks, turns his hands over and lets it fall to his feet where it lands with a resounding thud: the calcified torment in each vessel weighing it down. He lifts his foot and stares into my face, his naked heel hovering just over that crucial part of me. I…
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