Are You You?

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Different looks, same walk.
Different voice, same words.
Different lives, same motions
Of affection directed at me.

You two are so discrete, so
Separated in my mind. Yet why
Do I see him in you at each angle?

How could you two possibly
Be connected? For a moment,
You were a shining star, sent to
Bring light to cast out this darkness.
Now I see the horror behind
Your flaming rays of white.

I thought I had forgotten him,
He was never truly a part of me.
But with you lying on my pillow,
Your body slowly breathing under
My covers, I can’t help but to wonder
If he never truly left me and never
Will release me from his hold.

Are you the new him?

Fruits and Darkness

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If apples are the forbidden fruit,
Then what are you, my dear?
For you taste just as sweet
But are most assuredly both
Sustenance and toxin.

If ambrosia gives life everlasting,
Then what do you bring, my dear?
For your kisses are exhilarating,
Your touch sets fire to my skin,
Yet there must be a catch hidden
Behind your smiling chestnut eyes.

Why must all good come
With a darker side? Is there
A true purity in this world
For a mere mortal like me?

What is your purpose in
This short life I live, dear one?
When will you show me
That darker side I know to be
Hiding just beneath your smiles?

Prompt for August 7: Something that Takes Place in the Salon

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[Prompt from http://daily-writing.blogspot.com/ .]

No matter what I did, every nasty comment of arrogant look continued to flow in and out of my thoughts. It was a horribly montage, one that I wanted to end as soon as possible.

I couldn’t do this right. I couldn’t do that right. I was too this or not enough of that. Everything I tried couldn’t make him happy; I had lost my own happiness years ago by trying to appease him. But all that was in the past.

“Is this close to what you were thinking?” asked Patricia.

I took a look at the sample she was pointing to in her color binder. I involuntarily reached out and touched the soft strands. I had the urge to shake my head and politely decline. But this was for me, not for him.

“Yes, exactly. And could we go a little shorter than usual?”

Patricia gave me a smile. I’d told her all about my secret desires, ever since my first appointment with her. “Sure thing, Sweetie.”

Out of all the things he wanted out of me, all the things I had to change in order to try and please him, I had only asked Richie one thing: love me always.

Even though I wanted to cut off his hands, and other body parts, deep down I hoped Richie and Kayla would last as long as we did. I wanted Richie to realize that what he wanted didn’t exist, I wanted Kayla to know that she would never be enough for him. That was their own punishment and I would relish in it.

“There you are, Sweetie.” Patricia styled the last few strands before setting her manicured hands on her hips, the comb still trapped between two pink frosted fingers.
“What do you think?”

I stared in shock at my reflection in the mirror. My hair, once long and caramel blonde, which would cascade off my shoulders in perfect curls, now was too short for even the most meager of pony tails. The gel Patricia used made the strands stick on end, spiking the back and adding flair to she short pixie bangs. But the brilliant deep purple brought out the aquamarine in my eyes and gave my usually sickly pale skin an ethereal glow.

Richie would have had a heart attack if he saw me. But I had never been happier when I handed Patricia my credit card.

Prompt for August 6: Something that is Fleeting

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[Prompt from http://daily-writing.blogspot.com/ . Prompt’s one day late due a lovely date with Netflix and a bottle of wine.]

Youth is a blossom on a tree.
It springs forth from cold wood,
Something magical in its power
And beauty. The brightness overcomes
Drab greys and deep browns.
But winter must come as well,
Bringing the harsh winds and frozen
Touch. One beauty is destroyed,
Only to bring forth another
In its wake.

Prompt for July 17: Faint

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[Prompt from http://daily-writing.blogspot.com/ .]

His voice was no more the roaring thunderstorm it had been right after his death. I used to hear him professing his love for me in the middle of the night. I could still hear every confession he had made to me, as if he was lying beside me, his fingers twirling their way into my hair.

But as of late, his voice has lost its strength. No more can I clearly hear him speak my name. The thundering
timbre is now only a whisper caressing my cheek like the faintest gust of wind. Where I used to fall asleep listening to his protestations, I now stay awake throughout the night, fighting my memory to give me even a glimpse of his deep chocolate voice.

Why must time be so cruel as to heal the wound slightly only to snatch away the very sutures that were holding you together?