A Bother
A Bother
I don’t mean to be a bother, I really don’t. I just can’t help but ruining everything all the time.
You don’t ruin everything silly.
Breakfast?
Well yeah but that’s one off.
Mom’s anniversary with dad?
That was an accident.
So I’ve said. If I told you it was on purpose would you be mad at me?
Well, no, I’m not mom but I’d be shocked. Why would you spill wine on her at dad’s grave on purpose?
I genuinely thought it would make her laugh. Because dad spilled wine on her on their first date remember?
Ohh, right. I didn’t think of that. Did you tell her you were trying to recreate that moment? She loves telling that story.
No. I felt so bad about it I threw up behind some lady’s tombstone over the hill. Mary S. Timbleton was her name.
You never told me you threw up on a dead woman’s grave.
Behind it.
Nearly there anyways. Makes for a better story. Dad would’ve laughed.
He was certainly a better storyteller than I am.
I like your stories just fine. You’ve yet to ruin one of those.
Thanks. I think.
More Posts from Jean-elle-writing and Others
I’m like a child, the way my mind works. I want us to look at each other, but I keep covering my eyes.
It hurts me, the rust. The moving water is both a curse and a blessing, I know it rusts my chainmail further but my skin is dying for the tips of its rushing fingers. My leg has been shattered beneath this fountain statue for nearly seven days. I cannot stand, I cannot move but inches left and right in its basin. How horrible a way to die in war, by a stone man, in an iron casket. Though if a living man had struck me down, I’d say the very same.
—a solider named Feo
You wouldn’t understand it, you aren’t a mimic. I miss crawling into other people’s skin because I feel more comfortable there. Sir John of Kistchire’s outrageous ski slope nose and eyebrows so furry birds mistake them for caterpillars, or Miss Browden’s pursed cherry red lips clinging for dear life at the end of her chin; they feel like second homes to me.
Why can’t you just be yourself?
I told you, you wouldn’t understand. I can be outrageous as Sir John when I’m him, I can be as persnickety and secretive as Miss Browden when I’m her. When I’m just, me, I’m. I’m nothing.
Most people don’t need a wardrobe of skins to feel at ease you know. Of course I wouldn’t understand you. You’re ununderstandable.
I’ll show you ununderstandable. I’ll take these eyes and strain them brown, I’ll take this hair and stretch it into a long flaxen rope just like yours. Though I don’t know how to braid, so we may look different still.
Do not wear my face. Ever.
Afraid of what you’ll see if I do?
Our screams were never songs. Is that what you’ve been hearing all this time?
-Diary of a siren
This isn’t me,
I don’t know who I’m pretending for.
Her cupids bow dips to her bottom lip, drawn constantly, words seldom loosed. I tease laughter from her with my foolishness, and every time her mouth opens another of love’s arrows is fired at me, and if I am a soldier, I am one who so longs to be struck down, I am one who would never raise a shield against her.
—Diary of a Siren
I will make up for lost time.
I will make up for lost time.
I will make up for lost time.
I will make up for lost time.
I will make up for lost time.
I will make up for lost time.
I will make up for lost time.
I seldom feel the words he says, I’ve steeled myself to any emotion he may try and peel off of me like loose flakes of skin. It is too tough now, calloused to the point of no return. Even his softness though, is lost on me, I feel no warmth or cold. He has forced me to this numb state. He has taught me that feeling leads only to pain.
I thought the world decayed as I grew old. My weary eyes grazed easily against its pointed cruelties, and I wondered how so much could fall so fast. But it was always that way. I was too young to see it as it was and now I am too old to see it as it can be.
