Raging Love – Just another day

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WARNING: GRAPHIC LANGUAGE


He threw the kitchen knife at her, “Fuck you, what the fuck did I do to you?”

Her eyes red with rage, she swiftly ducked and with a samurai like movement made two steps, grabbed his Biro off the bench and stabbed him in his hand.

“What the fuck?”

“Ironic isn’t it you piece of shit, you throw a knife at me in my kitchen and miss but I stab you with your fucking muse, admit it, you never loved me, you….”

“What on earth are you on about now you psychopath? Whilst you snore I sit counting your breaths for so long that I forget to breathe myself.”

“I snore? You wish I do, you’re probably thinking of your mother, you arse hole.”

“Nope, it’s you sweet piggy,” he ducks a book, “I know it’s you because I don’t give a shit about the fruits in your hair as you smother your eau de parfum of cigarettes in your roots with Estee but I feel the weight of your head get heavier on my outstretched arm and I know the time it takes for you to go from falling asleep, to deep sleep, completely gone because my arm goes from pulsating back against your head to completely dead, lifeless, circulation cut and no pulse. So shove your denial up your arse.”

“You’re so full of it Mr word smith, you could convince the night it’s white and silence it’s loud, you’re the one who falls asleep first. Breath? Huh, I notice how you slow down from your adrenaline filled vein pulsating sprint breathing to a slow rhapsody of puffs. Only then do I know I can curl your body, fashion it as I please to make pillows to arch my body against.”

“Yeah whatever, you love to lie. How could I be pillows if I’m awake before you and you have three alarms on your phone and two on the radio alarm clock blaring at you and your face is still buried in a pillow. You may as well be dead.”

“I’ll kill you if it means I’ll kill myself too you prick! For thirteen years I’ve been struggling to get up to those alarms but, I wake when I hear your voice instantly don’t I you unappreciative low life.”

“Unappreciative? Nah, I see the clothes you lay out for me from the night before, perfectly folded, fabric softener scented and pressed collars, I’m not blind you know”.

“You are blind; as you don’t see that I see the perfect disarrangement of clothes, scattered hallway to shower, forcing me to pick up remnants of your soul, my soul after you’ve left the house. Forcing me to trace your scent down the stairs and to the kitchen, then back out the foyer and to the door where I lose you to the particles of air. I close that door every morning hoping I don’t see you again but I get to the kitchen bench and there you are. You leave behind a heart poured through a silky white Rosetta latte, gold elixir wafting through the air that you made with your own hands and the cups brim still smells like your fragrance. I drink your heart and when I get to the last drop, you serve me divorce papers for eight hours. Eight hours you make me suffer with nothing more than lactose intolerance as a reminder of your painful love you leave lingering in the pit of my stomach.”

“You see that? Really? I see the hardship written in the paragraphs on your forehead as I come back home, I know there’s stories penned there and prose etched in the salt stains on your cheeks waiting for me to read it and you know how much I love to read, but I can’t open your book just yet, not when the garbage bags of my daily dealings needs to be tied up and moved away, away enough for the stench not to offend you or anyone at home. Just give me five minutes to collect my…”

“…Thoughts? Guess what your son did today? Guess what your other son did to his younger brother? Guess what your daughter drew today? Guess what the little one broke today? Guess whose mother died.What do you think about that?”

“Wow, I can’t believe they’re growing so quick, I never knew he had it in him, I always knew she’s an artist, and fuck it, it’s just a vase. I don’t know her mother do I? You know I’ve never been emotional about death, what can I say? But I did miss you.”

“How can you miss me when you don’t notice me?”

“Hah! You’re deluded. I notice, trust me I notice. Like when I smell Narciso Rodriguez top noted with mascara float into the room, I know the kids are asleep, you’ve showered your woes away and got your lingerie on. I know it’s an invitation to shut down for the night and to head to bed. I know that you lay in bed and pretend to go to sleep because you add one more breath than you took the night before, before you fall asleep to see if I am paying attention. I notice you bitch!”

“Fuck you, I love you”.

-W.E.

Goldilocks and her big fucking bear!

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Even when I’m with people….

I’m not there,
Unfair,
I care,
but the snares,
the nostril flares,
the minds impair,
as they struggle to comprehend my lack of flair,
or care,
to their,
daily trivialities that I’m unaware,
of,
so I stay out of their,
hair,
how dare,
I ignore their very being,
and from being a small teddy in a corner,
I end up the big fucking bear,
sitting in the middle of the room on scrutiny’s chair.

That chair is gonna’ break,
it’s there for the take,
so for your sake,
leave me alone,
a calm lake,
before I partake,
In chaotic savagery,
heartache,
pen breaks,
soul takes,
rusty autumn rakes,
cant gather my thoughts, mistakes,
half baked,
life cakes,
burnt steaks,
no brakes,
like a mack truck,
of missile freight ,
Stop now before it’s too late,

And you meet your fate.

-W.E.

 

 

 

How you know he’s right – Grandma’s recipe!

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“But how do I know he’s right?” she asked.
It was more of a rhetorical question but her grandmother being who she is never gave half baked answers.
She said, “If you want to know, don’t worry about his eyes. They can be trained to lie.
Don’t worry about his face; he can have two of them.
Don’t even worry about his words; he can be a word smith of sorts.
Above all else, look at his hands”.

“His hands?”

“Yes my dear”.

“Huh… I don’t….”

“Jolie, you must look at his hands. Are they rugged and do they have marks of work? Has he toiled with them and earned his worth?
If they aren’t scarred and marked with proof of resilience then you have no business demanding he be anything more than your toy.
Look into his nails, are they shiny with lustre reflecting his own image? If so forget about him, he’s infatuated with himself and has no time or attention for you. Look instead for scratches, cracks and a little coarseness. Look for hardness; you never know when you’d want him to claw a man to death for you….. ”

“Grandma!”

“Really, you can’t marry a man who has better nails than you do. Look closely at his fingertips. Are they rough and have terrains like the Alps? Or are they smooth like a babies bum? If the later then he will not know how to touch you, he will be so used to frailty and so inexperienced he will do one of two things with them, either not be able to soothe you at all or he will hurt you with them. The man with toiled hands will know what it’s like to have them tarnished with pain and suffering. He will touch you gently and know how much force to use, he will heal you by merely brushing it on your face.

Jolie, one more thing, smell his hands. If they are useless hands, they will smell of fruity synthetics, the smell of a man who has to fake his masculinity. Rather they should smell of rust, woods and a little patchouli. Then you know he is true to his art.”

“Art, perfume, this is crazy?”

“Yes Jolie, it is an art to be a man. The fragrances will reassure you when you doubt him. The rust is his work ethic, the woods are his abasement of self and attachment to the earth and the patchouli is his choice, he picks those from the fields for you so the scent lingers in his palms. Patchouli is healing, soothing, intoxicating and calming. It will also arouse desire in you for him. Haven’t you got google?”
And they giggled into each other’s arms.

-W.E.

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“Give me one reason why I should stay with you.”

He replied “I’ll give you fifty nine!

When you talk to me and I seem like I’m not paying attention to what you say, you’re probably right, I was counting fifty nine eye lashes on your left eye.

When you yell at me and I don’t yell back, I was giving you fifty nine excuses for your anger with me and justified them all.

When you don’t like how much I work, I was thinking of our fifty ninth anniversary and how I would give you another fifty nine in a heartbeat.

Speaking of heartbeats, I remember counting yours as you sleep, and how you’re in perfect sync with the clock, sixty beats per minute. So I measured my own heart and noticed it was exactly like yours except for the last one as it skips one beat for you.

Can you give me one excuse why you should leave?”

-W.E.