namiora:
a one-sided love story

even when the rain’s not falling

written for xsyntheticsmile's nobody dances anymore challenge

- - It is you I want

- - or just the notion
..of a heart to wrap around to find my way around

You have periwinkle eyes, but that’s a rather dull shade of blue, isn’t it? You’d rather have eyes that have a vibrant color painted on them, something that isn’t blue or along the lines of purple. And after a certain amount of time wasted on studying your small collection of crayons, you decide that you’d like it if people were captivated by the warmth of your eyes when you spoke to them, thus the color coffee brown would be your ideal choice.

But nobody chats with you, so it wouldn’t matter anyway.

You’re such a sick artiste, you whisper to yourself while curled up on that white chair of yours, wishing and knowing that you should have never sewn his memories back together, and that you should have just left it ripped to the seams, with memories of only you.

And only you.

Not her and him, or him and her. And for a brief second, you wish that colors like bright red and silver were extinct.

You’re such a sick little girl, always displaying that look of childish nativity with your gigantic doe eyes when all you are is the prettiest form of manipulation he’s ever met.

- - I don’t have a past

What are you doing with those crayons now? You’re ruining them by the way you’re pressing them down on that manila sketchbook, the sound of the morbid crack of crayon spines snapping in half pleasing you to no end.

You know that nobody’s going to buy you anymore of them.

And now you’re laughing bitterly, are you? But maniacal laughter fades into gentle crying and poetic lip trembling, your paper splotched with dots of wetness.

And you know that you must look dreadful right now because you’re not a princess of heart, and sobbing hysterically makes your nose ruddy red and your eyes bloody swollen.

Plastic sticks of color scattered across the floor, you rip your new masterpiece from the spiral bounds of your sketchbook feverishly, and you get up and step on the broken crayons with your bare feet, thinking that your life you were put in was a bit unfair.

And that it hurts.

- - safe to say from here,

- - you’re getting closer

Normally, you would’ve restrained yourself from throwing a random hissy fit, but you don’t feel so indecisive today, in fact, you feel impulsive.

So impulsive that you want to wreck something, and for once in your life, not care about what happens to you or other people. You’ll let the consequences haunt your mind tomorrow morning, and inject you with regret.

In one big movement, your fingers are tearing down pictures from the white walls, picture after picture, your pale washed out blonde hair swishing in every single direction. The pages filled with images of what you sometimes pretended to be your life, all falling down, falling down.

And finally, you’re done. Four blank walls surround you, wrinkled pictures strewn across the floor, and a bang of satisfaction knocks at your heart.

But there’s one last step.

Your heartbeat beating in dissonance with your footsteps, you feel adrenaline rushing through your veins. It’s all you now. All you.

Eyes wide and with trembling hands, you gingerly rip off a small sliver of transparent tape before proceeding to a random wall. You’re almost there…

And then it’s up, and you feel elevated, like you’ve just magically sprouted wings or something. There you are, up there on that wall.

It’s a picture of a blonde-haired girl with a white sundress on.

And she’s the only thing decorating the walls because she’s the masterpiece, and you giggle with sheer delight because, hey, in all the times you’ve drawn pictures, you’ve never drawn yourself all alone.

- - rain rain go away…

Your feet are cold as you’re curled up on the floor, the last of your watercolor tears drying on your cheeks. It was a tiring twenty-five minutes that you know.

Wiping your runny nose, you tell yourself in a gentle voice that you’re not a witch because witches don’t have tear stains on their cheeks.

And that witches don’t try to escape the withholding embrace of loneliness.

And most of all, witches don’t wish.

With a shuddering sigh, you whisper to a boy you might’ve actually known before…

“Come again another day…”

…because you still want him, ever so much.

-

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song used: breaking benjamin- rain