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AHHHH!!!! 38 DAMN READS AND ONE RECCOMEND!!!! What the HELL is wrong with it?!?!?!?!?!?!! IF you read this, and you don't like it, tell me why and how to improve it!! HENCE the reason why WORKSHOP WAS MADE!!!!!!! DAMN IT! READ THIS, AND TELL ME HOW TO IMPROVE IT OR SOMETHING!!!EVEN IF YOU CAN'T GET THROUGH THE DAMN THING THEN SAY THAT! AHHHH!!!!!!
This is an excerpt journal entry from a novel I'm writing called "Twisted Insides". I started it a few years back, and may put up the first one here. The second one might, but I'm still not sure if it's appropriate for this site.
Three in the morning rolled around. Nostalgia filled the pores of my mind.
I sat there, trailing my fingers over the screen, as if I could touch her through the thin plastic over the liquid covering, her fingers her spirit. A spirit I so long ago relinquished to a world that didn’t deserve her. My soul turned in my chest, stomach clenching deep within as I read each word lain out before me like an elegant centerfold in an old Playboy magazine. Lewd, begging to be accepted by the men she pressed against temptingly and the drinks she drank willingly. They were like the leather and chains of Betty Paige, decking her up in an oufit of risqué and cliché, leaving nothing to imagination of the outer exterior yet leaving the lifeless, obsessed minds of her readers screaming for more.
Once, I thought, touching upon the word “best friend” I had graced the position deep enough to sink into her mind. Had inundated myself in her world and felt myself defined by her spirit. Once, she had been the obsession that I had held at arms distance, had abused yet swallowed whole from like an addict on Oxy. She had been my Phenobarbitol, my Pretty Pistol, a mixing pot of hate and desire, a tainted love so addicting that I wanted an end but couldn’t get enough. The way her hair trailed down my back, her nails on my spine…I desired her. Her lips, her skin, her body, her touch. Her scent…
Once upon a time I held her. But that fairy tale ended when she met Tailyn.
Now, instead of being able to sink within her, I am trapped on the outside, meeting her only through the liquid screen of a laptop to read the words that have become HER. To taste the solid air that she projects with her writing and be left wanting more with taste buds whetted and screaming. I can beg and plead as much as I want, and yet she turns her head to my cries and ignores the pleas for some sort or response, be it positive or negative, as if I were a neglected child screaming for indulgence of some sort. Some sort of recognition. But there is no indulgence, no is there sort of recognition. But she goes on with her life, dancing her way through her world of renfaires and internet problems, homeschool and failing grades, leaving me out. No more poems are dedicated to what we have, or what once was. Nothing. Nothing.
Nothing.
Emptiness prevails, and I am left wanting. Is that what it’s like to be truly alone? Oh that which I have once known…to have that before Tailyn came along…to give my soul to breathe within her arms again for Miah and Miah alone! I grip the spot over my chest, fingers still touching upon the same “best friend” it had been on for god knows the amount of time that it had been. Not even do I get the honor of a “Screw you” or some other remark anymore! But am left…nothing…
I lower my hand, reluctant, as a young boy is from lowering his hand from that first nude picture, or a husband for the same yearning for a taste of the forbidden fruit that they had given up. Left desiring. Wanting to taste that flesh. That scent. Have that fun once more. Nobody else could match to what she was to me. And I have given her up. And for what?
Nothing…
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