21st Century Cliché


Everytime I watched her write, it was like my mind kept imagining the paper taint with blood which poured from her wrists. There always seems to be, has to be some sort of hurt; I couldn’t seem to imagine her in a different setting. I could picture her so much, in so many different conscious ways, but my mind redirects to this vignette of bleeding rapture.
Her lips drooped, stoned in a day-dream; fingers possessed by her demons. Tired and restless eyes, green and intense. 
It’s been so many years and I wish I could love her all over again, but it’s hard to imagine anyone other than the girl from the past who couldn’t seem to leave my side. 
And it’s hard to imagine a world where he could walk up to me the way he did back then – my hips adjusting into his hands with the soft look in his eyes. He would totally freak out if he knew I was writing about him while he sat right there as I tried to ignore the living hell out of him as much as I could; how his image is still alive in my mind and my thoughts. No-one could know about this. This is weakness. This is pain. And pain is weakness, and I am responsible enough to endure it. I get to choose who sees.
My brain never fails to toy with my vision – the water, I see; I hope turns into wine. Sadly, no drink could ever make me drunk enough to get this off my nerves.
Sometimes I hope you love me out of pity so I could learn to take you for granted and possibly hate your guts, and possibly run away like the volatile mess I am. I think this’s been going on for a bit too long. Time to suck it up.
Hope is a fleeting spark. Completely irrational. The hopes, I pray they leave me. But praying will not save me. Not this time.
“This road will end at some point…” I say, in a low voice, as voices echo in the night.
We walked in pitch-black darkness, in silence. It’s always been some sort of comfortable silence between us.
“Everything ends at some point. But, it’ll only end when you want it to end. In this world, few are the things within your control and limits,” he says.
“Let’s keep walking.”
Mona Issa

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