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She is a stuttering soliloquy. A wounded symphony played by an orchestra of her family’s “I told you so’s.” A tattered woman who bleeds like an oak tree, her life story is just a sandpaper love song written on a napkin full of all the reasons why no one should ever try to hug the rain. You always end up soaking wet and by yourself. She, a rusty faucet, dripping self esteem that falls quicker than short skirts in motels when the sun blinks for too long. You see, when confidence hits the ground it echoes like sin in a room full of God and I can hear her coming from a mile away. She has violin strings for legs, a graveyard of awkward treble clefs buried in her knees. And I can see the suffering inside of the concert of her walk. Her footsteps sound like the ignition to her father’s car the day that he decided that he was too thirsty to pour water on his own seed. So when she calls me daddy I never really get excited because I know that its just a title that she gives the branches in her life that are destined to be abducted by the wind. She comes over on Wednesdays. She walks into my room like a question that neither one of us has the courage to ask. Yknow, sometimes words they get too heavy to sit on the ivory pedestals that we’ve built inside of our mouths. Yknow, sometimes our actions join hands and become behaviors that are too complicated for lips to say out loud. So instead we just liberate our flesh letting skin speak on our behalf the language of those who are just as afraid of commitment as they are of being alone and we speak it like its our native tongue. Honestly, I can’t tell you her favorite color, her middle name, or what her face looks like with the lights on. All I know is that we are both allergic to the exact same things, things like compliments. Like the word beautiful. Like someone saying “I love you,” with arms full of acceptance and sincerity on their breath. Most days I wonder what she carries in the luggage underneath her eyes. I wonder if those bags ever get too heavy for her face, but instead I let those questions sand castle inside of my stomach. I amputate the parts of me that are growing fond of her smell. I wash my sheets. And I think to myself yknow, most men are proud of things like this.
written by Rudy Francisco

(Source: seussicide)

Posted 1 year ago with 84 Notes
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