abstrat love behind broken lines of hypnotic lives.

1

Bleeding from eyes she wipes away whatever makeup she had left and spit into the wind.  Saliva spreading into odd rain drops and drool from her chin.  Ground littered in wet soggy cigarette butts from the two day rains; she tosses out another to the lovely collection.  Her secret bubbled inside her head and through the blood that traveled the length to her heart, wishing she could scream in everyone’s face.  Especial his.  He may know but she liked to think that his chaotic mind didn’t know a single thing.  So creative yet so dumbfound.  Cursing herself for all the wrongs and the rights that happen to happen time to time, wishing things could be a hundred percent better. Not for herself, but others as well.  The writing books and journals didn’t seem to help an ounce but she clinged to the hypnotic notebook that held his creative touch.  Her sixteenth birthday wish and plans to change time, blue prints to the time machine, poetry that held no meaning but every excuse known to the world, rants that made sense in her head.2

He does what he does in where ever the heck he may be at the moment he was on her mind. Having fun and throwing a rave. The voice that lingered in the back of his head told him the secrets of everyone’s heart, but its nonexistent, silent muffled music yet not created.  A picture yet not taken.  The life story of his insane existent, and that’s why she loved him.  Living life on the other side of the line, where she belonged.  Where she wanted to be.  Not in the small confinements of confused love, spending the rest of her life with the lies and the fights.  Free.  But her heart didn’t tell him her secrets, didn’t whisper a single melody of puppy love that wanted to become true love.  He was bound by the camera, his eye glued to the window of new views.  The burley perfection of a stranger’s sex life, graffiti on an empty wear house or train cars, discolored photos of friends, whatever put a handsome smile on his face.  She loved that too.  But that was just the outside.3

Her crummy classes for the day before the class that she really looked forward to everyday rotted her brain and fried her eye balls.  She hadn’t thought about not taking her glasses.  Writing away in her journal, little scribbles and sorts, the bell rings so she tosses everything into her overflowing backpack and graphed her worn tattered jacket and head out the door.  Visions of running head on into his lips.  Crash.  “Oh!”  He said and bent over to pick up his favored hypnotic notebook.  She held her breath and smiled.  “What’s up?”  He asked and handed back her prized position. “Nothing much, you?”  Hoping her breath didn’t reek of cigarettes, not that it mattered. “Same old same old you know?” “Yeah.”  “Well see ya later”  “okay.”  He turned the corner and she let out a big cigarette sigh, heart pounding like a butterfly on a cross country fly.  4

Shaking his head he wished he knew her hearts lone secret.  Hers was the only one he couldn’t read.  Her shields up to high, hence why she never let anyone in.  Afraid wasn’t the right word, but it was the first that came to mind.  Hours flew by slowly after that his heart beat as fast as a turtle on a run.  5

Her best friend, her sister, was the only one that she spilled her beating vessel to.  The only one that agreed with her, but told her when she was wrong, that she deserved better then what she had.  And that she could also come live with her and her crummy parents when she needed an escape that didn’t end in suicide or starvation.  Just endless hugs and that shoulder that she really desired, that she really needed.  And that always and most defiantly made her the happiest person on the bloody earth.  Even if it was just for a few blessed seconds, or minutes, or hours… the only person she truly had,  and kept with her every sec in her back pocket, that and her little brothers.  Soon hopefully, the one her heart yearned for.6

It was heaven, an anarchic paradise full of creativity and lost laughs.  Songs of war and peace, cuckoo beats and bullheaded bass.  Pure bliss.  Her perfect place, even if embarrassment did take its turn.  Arcadia seemed like the right word, the first to come to mind.  They talked ( he told her he was headed out for the weekend, to get away for a while.  She smiled, but her eyes screamed, take me with you). They read each others works, drew, wrote words that neither of them would see, at least not till they were on there death bed. He makes her happy, happy enough to bust a gut and bleed from the eyes.  And it started to rain, “let’s go play.”  She whispers.  He flashes her that handsome smile and replies, “When you’re ready, I’m ready.”  And touches her hand, the butterfly was off again.7

Writing as fast as she possibly could, she scribbles the days highlights and began to cry.  She wanted nothing more then to sit and rot, she felt so bad. Because you see, she was stuck with the person she loved for a year and yearned the chaotic creative mind that promised her on that rainy day.  He’d let her achieve her dreams, not hold her back.  Let her live on the other side of the line with him.  Kidnap her and take her to another state, somewhere free, free of lies and fights.  Immortal happiness, yes her arcadia.  8

Eyes sucked back into her head as far as the starvation would let it go.  Not even an absolute being could save her, give her a miracle.  Useless hypnotic notebooks do come in handy, secret plans to kill him, to make her life a hundred percent better, not only for herself, but others as well.  To (hopefully) get the insane personal and keep him in a locket and run away with him.  It was perfect.  Till she fell and broke her head and died a thousand deaths only to be brought back and hated for all eternity.  Love had taken its toll again.9

Love for her continued to run through his veins, even though she looked like a helpless skeleton of past sorrow, he wished things where different.  A hundred percent better you could say.  Hopeless wasn’t the right word, but it was the first that came to mind.10

Still clinging to book with the torn, but treasured, cover she throws another stinky cigarette butt out to the collection.  Skin and bones, skin and bones, she hated everything. Including the butterfly.  Just another collection.11