Young Writers Society

I'm still in love with you. it's a simple thing to say… Well not really; but I’m sure all the pain and anger and pure frustration of the last year will give me strength enough to end it all. But I’m not sure that’s how I want to end it – confess to him something I’m not entirely sure about, make all strained conversation we have into awkward silences, make it impossible to look him in the eye, and make my actual existence a living hell when he tells his girlfriend and I become “Psycho-obsessed-Alex-stalker” all over again.

It would be the end of the rags that were once our friendship anyway – not even a pile of ash there to connect us. But at least it would be the end of the hurt, the longing, the arguments, the misleading flashes of friendship, the confusion, the memories… Or would it? Would it really fill the black, deep, unidentifiable hole in my chest? What if I told him and then decided it wasn’t true? That it was just sheer desperation to be his friend, and then any chance of that happening would be ruined.

So I guess I’d better not say it. And we’ll just stay as we are. With his arrogant refusal to let go, and my obsessive stubbornness to cling on.

So these are my teenage years? With nothing really mattering, but everything being a big deal? With him swarming my mind every 30 seconds? And a constant longing to be something I'm not, and do something I’ll never actually be bothered to do?

The candle that falls on my guitar nods in agreement, and the flame waves sweetly.

Five candles dotted around an incense smelling room, swaying in a breeze from an open window through which sing the crickets, a favourite and soothing song playing on the stereo, an empty stomach filled on wine, and a sense of immense numbness as a hand strokes a cold smooth wall. It’s one of those strange little moments of life. Like acoustic chords on your old guitar after a long, long day. Like crying not a tear as you say goodbye, then slumping to the ground and heaving with tears when you find yourself alone. The sweet belly full of fire as you rebel against all morality. Like loosing control with an eruption of violence after someone pushes you too far. Like lying on the grass next to someone, feeling the heat from their body not far away, watching the clouds turn to stars and reminiscing and explaining, feeling like you’re finally getting somewhere. Or the silent tear that falls with a shooting star as they walk away saying you’re getting nowhere. Like watching how the light falls on someone’s back as they lament something secret. Like noticing how blue someone’s eyes are as they say horrible things to you and make you feel like shit (even though you’re not listening, you’re just remembering how gentle they were when they drew on your arm. Like watching them together and wondering what the hell he sees in her, and what the hell makes her think she loves him. Like the strange, body-sighing feeling given by a blade swiping through you’re skin.

Tears seep from the sides of my ceiling facing eyes and slide down the sides of my face. I’m pathetic. I'm wretched. And I seriously need to sort myself the fuck out.

A familiar, beautiful and ironic song comes on and I turn towards the cold wall, the tears on my face dribbling onto my neck.

Get a life Charlotte. Get a fucking life.

This is the ending to a story, it makes a lot more sense once you've read the whole thing (not that Ive written the whole thing quite yet). I thought it was about time I put something up other than crappy poems, and I was hoping people could help me improve this, it's not exactly great is it?[/pre]