• Why I Write

    by  • January 16, 2017 • * Safe for Work *, To You • 5 Comments

    Why do I write?
    Because I can’t pick up the phone and call. Because even if I could, you’d be distracted by one of your many admirers anyway. Because I have to talk to you somehow, even if I know deep down that you’ll never read these words; although, I dream that you will.

    Why do I drink?
    Ugh. This one I have gone over and over and around and around with. The truth is that I can’t get you off my mind. You suck like that. I love the way we get along. I love fighting with you. I love annoying you and you annoying me then looking at me with those eyes narrowing… Ugh. I hate you. I love you. I’m not sure any more. I’m dead and numb. But not with you. With you, I’m alive and electrified. You ignite the fire deep within my soul. The fire that I’ve extinguished. That I keep extinguishing. You have to stop. Stop being so nice. Stop being so kind. Stop touching my heart. I put those iron bars up for a reason.

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    5 Responses to Why I Write

    1. Random
      January 17, 2017 at 6:29 am

      You put those iron bars up to find someone strong enough to break them. Don’t fear the bend.




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      • Author
        January 17, 2017 at 5:22 pm

        I put those iron bars up and then I poured cement between them. Then I boarded it all up and hung a curtain for show. But the curtain was ripped off. The boards broken and the cement is crumbled to dust. All that’s left are those bars protecting me.




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    2. Author again
      January 19, 2017 at 3:34 pm

      It’s not about the bend. It’s about the puncture wounds that the breakage causes. The bleeding. The pain that comes with letting another in.




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    3. Noname
      January 21, 2017 at 11:53 pm

      Whyyyy do u do this???




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      • Author's Answer
        January 23, 2017 at 4:32 pm

        I never exactly meant to. It’s not even like it was a conscientious decision one day. It just sorta happened over time. I kept getting hurt by the same one over and over. A lie here, a fit of unsolicited rage there, sprinkled with broken promises. At some point, you don’t even know who they are anymore. I kept trying. I kept on holding on to my commitment to this person.

        One day, I realized that I am not wanted anymore. I am needed only. The kiss of deaths for a woman’s love. I’m no longer desired, no matter what I have put in. I realized too that I didn’t feel loved or satisfied. It took meeting someone else who made me feel again. Someone else woke my heart up. After years of me begging HIM to try to. After me agreeing inside myself to just go on living, without feeling special. I guess I became contented with the disappointment.

        I decided that I didn’t need it. That I could go on. I didn’t want love anymore. I didn’t want passion. I was getting too old with too many responsibilities. All I needed to do was to take care of my kids until my death. That was my purpose. Why cry over romantic love? When all it does is end anyway? I had my share already.

        But this someone else won’t stop touching my heart, teasing me, putting explosives in the walls of the heart I unknowingly burried a long time ago. (Don’t know if he means to, but…) I was okay. I didn’t know what I was missing. I don’t like this temptation, but it’s addictive. It’s my drug and this site is the only way I’ve found to let out the steam: my rehab.




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