Write for me, please?

Write for me, please?

Write for me, please?

She busied her fingers, toiling away day and night at the keyboard. She had been wooed and charmed, propositioned ever. Nothing swayed her. Nothing interested her. She was bored.

Not of life but of circumstance. The perspiration of her drink distracted her, momentarily.

She gulped some down and went back to pounding her keyboard. The only way she knew how. Her eyes like copper, staring at the screen. Like electricity, meshing her dreams and thoughts into words. Fingers melting into the keys.

She’d been through it all. Broken friendships, mindless bashing, one night stands, throwing men out of her bed at 4am, being selfless for friends, working late nights, falling sick, paying for her father’s bail, making sure her mother lives, falling in love, laughing at herself, lying to herself, crying at the movies, crying at home, crying into her pillow, falling out of love, drinking every night, crosswords in the cab, plane rides to random places, lying to friends, standing up for her beliefs, defending enemies, nights of face masks and popcorn, pajamas and bedroom slippers, sex and lust, working until 2pm, working until 2 am, hating friends, having no one, surviving and living, being happy, being confused, being sad, been uncontrollably emotionally drained, forgiving and forgetting, moving on.

Nothing stayed with her. She was devoid of feeling any sort of attachment.

Her inner goddess or a god damn queen would rarely make an appearance. She didn’t feel pretty. She wasn’t beautiful. A rainbow brought banality. She wrote a tear away.

She sipped her drink again and let out a long sigh of clouds. Her thoughts carousel in her head, minus the excitement, the tune faded in the background into her song.

He crept into her mind. Their bond was glued together through words. He enticed her with letters that made sense and some that didn’t. She ignored. He said some more. She ignored. Then he said something that captivated her. That’s how her affair with his diction began.

He was strange. Stranger than most people she met. He wasn’t a good kisser. She didn’t love him. She wasn’t even attracted to him. HE wasn’t her type. His magic with verse was. He repulsed her sometimes. But she kept him on a pedestal. He deserved it.

She took another sip, breathing in the smoky ice in her glass. She needed to feel alive.

Her phone beeped. There was an email and a tweet. MAILED.

He had written to her, about her, for her, again.  Her skin crawled. Her fingers traced the curled letters.


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