There is my lipstick on your shirt from the last time we met. I am sorry for spoiling your work shirt but you should be sorry too, for not being there for me and there is my lipstick again on your favourite coffee mug from those nights when we would stay up late together when I was an amateur writer and earlier than I started wearing lipstick. A body lies in a pool of blood on the road towards your house, ran over by her. You rush to me, trying to wake me up after the crash as I lie sprawled. Your wife calls you being on the steering wheel edgily.
It is too late now, I am dead. I strive for the picture in my mind of that peerless person I can’t identify. I scurry through trying to stay on path watched over. I adhere to the people I hold the most dear, even the ones who are not near. I have no places to run. I have no roads to cross. I cannot turn into a fairy from the dust I have become because it is too late now.
This Post is written for Day#7 of NaBloPoMo which challenges you to a blog post every single day in November. This is a great opportunity to publish posts daily, meet other bloggers, and try something new.
I write a lot, which keeps me off the streets and out of trouble. There is always something to write about, always a new story to craft. Not writing, for me, is like trying to hold back a sneeze. Learning to write was the most powerful influence in my life. I can still remember the awe I felt when I realized I could put real words onto paper and tell out a story. From that first ‘a-ha’ moment I knew I wanted to write.
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