Friday, March 25, 2011

Three times a week (old prose)

She tells herself that she will not be afraid any longer.  She will no longer step out of her warm bed and think that the entire world is out to get her.  She will be strong and beautiful and if no one else sees it, fine, at least she will.

She will write the lyrics she has dreampt of writing, and she will sing like an angel, and she will do the things everyone else always tells her are impossible, and she will not thank him.  She will not give him the pleasure of knowing that she still thinks about him every second of her waking hours and even more while she is dreaming, because she knows that eventually he will begin to fade and that he will finally mean to her what she has claimed all of this time.

Nothing.  He will mean nothing.

And she writes this as she lays in her warm bed with her cat beside her, and she smells like lilac and her hair is in a messy bun the way she likes it, and she swears that tomorrow will be the day that things will change.

Tomorrow she will take a shower and wear her hair down and put on the jeans she loves, because it doesn’t matter what everyone else thinks.

Tomorrow she will write him off as another sad love song, and move on with her life.

Tomorrow she will smoke one less cigarette, and drink one less caffeinated drink.  She will write one more poem and sing one more song and love herself a little more.

Tomorrow she will be a different person.

But today she’s staying in.

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