Stories about Adulting, handling rejection, etc.
I taste the warm salt through my teeth.
I missed this, really–pain–crying, grimacing silently and clenching my fists till my palms blossom into white and then my blood drains.
Pain. Tasteful pain–plunging deeper into pain until my tongue dries, and tear ducts on the inside corner of my eyes sting.
I’m seeing the simultaneous blurring and clearing of my vision as my last tear flows.
There’s a hollow block inside me being dragged down by ropes, tugging the walls of my wretched heart.
I try touching the ceiling from my bed, only to realize my hand is miles, miles, and miles away from it.
Everything is so beautiful. I feel alive. I’m a person.
Pain is good, it is. It juxtaposes the tainted from the pure.
My heart is screaming.
How lucky I am to have felt, than not to have felt at all.
My lover–a ghost hunter,
found my haunted dwelling
which hummed danger, anger–
but glistened with fresh paint.
Still, he ventured–
laid his bags on the dusty floor
and then sat and felt the walls
until he owned the house
My empty rooms he filled, but
his stay made my demons sweat,
so they tore through
my translucent wallpaper
tore, sticky pain seeped out
of the gape they made
and then out crawled a beast;
my lover shivered on his knees
Clawed, socked, chewed–
his flesh was torn;
the beast breathed fire
burned his shirts to a crisp
My lover–a survivor
Never again, he said
And just like before,
this house is empty
Lola Myrna is a soft-spoken 70-year-old woman who lives with her toddler grandson, Jimboy. She has ash-gray hair, and she keeps mostly to herself.
Lola is well-known in their neighborhood for adoring only two things in this world: her garden and her only grandson.