 |
| Image from here |
It looks hard. It’s enough to repel most people,
enough to make them give me what I want… distance. The few who try to step
close, they get to a point, always a point, where they stop, give one last look
and turn away. Always a point where they give up. Distance. What I’ve always
wanted.
It’s fragile. I saw you and I knew. Your set
jaw, your unrelenting eyes, that undefinable something, they told me you would be
Trouble. I’ve had Trouble before, but even it leaves me alone. Eventually. So I
watch with my smile mask on, awaiting your retreat; my victory. Waiting for
distance.
What I always used to want...
Now I sit alone on the floor, holding it in a
shaky hand. I try a soft cloth first. Wipe, wipe, wipe. I try a little spit,
and I wipe. I dip my cloth in warm soapy water. Then vinegar. I spray on some Windolene.
They won’t go away. Next, scouring powder. Then a metal sponge. It’s covered in
scratches when I’m done. But, beneath the scratches, they haven’t gone away.
I realise what I must do. I stand, raise it over my head, slam it into the ground, shattering it into a million tiny pieces. The wall holds me, and I slide down until my knees hit the ground. When my tears stop blinding me, I will gather the pieces together and build me a new, touch-proof, heart.
But how dare you leave your fingerprints all over my
heart of glass? And how, after everything, how dare you leave?
***
On the side...
Crazy schedule at school... so much to read. I feel like I need more hours in my day. But I said, "Uche, you must post something today!" So I wrote "Heart of Glass" a few minutes ago. (If you think it's rough - and it is - that's my excuse.)
I'm starting to think that I'd like to make this blog more personal (a bit more truth with the fiction), so the tone will change a bit, if I get it right. So when I do write fiction (as this post is), it might come with little notes on what inspired it, how it relates to me maybe, and other stuff that might not necessarily interest you.
For this one, I think I was thinking of how some people think I'm a hard person to know. And they're probably right. I don't say much, don't give much away; and it usually takes a long time for me to get comfortable with people. Some of this is probably deliberate on my part. But mostly, it's just how I am and I can't help it. Sometimes I'd rather be different, but... I've never been good at acting. Now I'm taking small, deliberate steps to be more open. Work in progress
Anyway, I think that, however we may look or seem from the outside, most people want to be loved (romance aside). I think that people want to share of themselves, but for some reason(s) will not. Maybe cannot? Sometimes it's because they've been hurt. Sometimes maybe they just don't know how?
Okay, I'm stopping now. This "note" is now longer than the main story.
Till next week, hopefully. And thanks for reading.
