Wild at Heart

Wild hearts can’t be broken. Wild hearts are those that have bits scattered like miscellaneous puzzle pieces. My heart-puzzle will never be complete. At the age of fourteen, I held my heart (metaphorically, of course) up to the light that shined through it like the sun through a church’s stained glass window. It was thin, smooth, no nicks or cracks. In my other hand a held a sledgehammer – heavy, cold, and mean. I pulled it back, like I was getting ready to test my strength, swung as if I were a baseball player looking for my next big paycheck, and shattered through that thin fragile object. I collected the pieces that pricked my fingers and stuffed them into my deep pockets.

There was only a little blood left on the sheets – it was the first time and people say that’s to be expected. I didn’t leave much else of a trace, but there was a small piece of my heart that I dug out of my pockets and tucked under his pillow. I didn’t hear from him again after I snuck out that night and I was okay with that. But I know each time he uses those sheets, he’ll see a reminder of me.

By the time I was eighteen, I wasn’t sure if I was going to have enough pieces left of my heart for the rest of my life. I could feel the collection in my pocket diminish – little by little, year by year. Different men, different nights.  

At the age of twenty two, my friends thought I was crazy. I was “risking pregnancy” or an “STD.” But I wasn’t the crazy one. I listened to them for nights on end, crying on the phone over the most recent guy to break their hearts. Some had their long term relationships, others had their relation-shits, and I just had my flings. They lasted as long as the orange tip on the end of my cigarette. I had them when I needed them and when I was done with them, I tossed them aside.

Maybe it’s tradition – as a young girl, you think about your wedding and your future husband. As a young woman, you take those dreams and you really start to think about them. Then by the time you’re my age (twenty five) and all of your friends have gotten married and you have more bridesmaid dresses than you care to think about that are cluttering your closet, you should want to get married, settle down, have a family, two dogs, a white picket fence with an emerald green lawn.

But I don’t have a marrying heart. I don’t have much of a heart left, if we’re telling the truth. Like puzzle pieces, my heart is scattered. A piece under Mark’s – from last night – couch. A piece in the slipper of the guy I used to babysit for. Somewhere in John Adam’s High, there’s an old paper of mine that I slipped a piece of my heart between the pages of after being bent over Mr. Turner’s desk. Isaac keeps a piece in his pocket to remind him that I’m not the relationship type, but he can call me whenever he’s up for a good time. Tim has one stashed on a shelf in the closet. …To name a few. The rest, well, they sit in a Mason Jar and I’ll take a few each time I leave the house. I never know where I’ll need to leave some. Under a street lamp at midnight, the backseat of a stranger’s car, the frozen food section at the grocery store, or a cup holder at the movie theater. 

Imperfections

You say that you love my eyes. The way they seem to change color when my mood changes, or the way that one is a little greener than the other and the way that they crease in the corners when I laugh. And when I’m done laughing, you say that you love the way that my voice sounds – just a little raspy.

What you don’t know is that I’m very self-conscious of my eyes. People have always pointed out the way that one is another color from the other. I know that you think it’s endearing, but when you point it out, I take it as criticism – a criticism that I can’t even take to fix. And when I laugh really hard, I snort. And my voice is something that I’ve always found to be too deep. I especially hate it when it’s raspy because it makes me squeak.

You say that you love my smile. How straight and white my teeth are and how my lips are neither too big nor too small, so just the right amount of my “perfect teeth” are shown. And my lips, you say, are perfect for when we kiss. Mine mold perfectly to each crease in yours.

What you don’t know is how long I sit in the mirror and obsess over my teeth. I pull my cheeks sideways and out and up and down examining each misaligned piece of bone and the height of my gums. And my lips, well I think they’re the way that they are because you also don’t know that I spend 10’s of dollars a month on multiple tubes of Chapstick. And when I’m bored, I can be caught putting it on, taking it off, and putting it back on again.

You say that you love my care free spirit. The way that I’ll do things on a whim or the way that I don’t care what others think of me. How I’m not afraid of anything and I’ll never let anything stop me from being happy.

What you don’t know is that I don’t have a carefree spirit. Maybe I’ll do things on a whim, but I’m terrified of everything. I’m terrified of being judged, of people that dress up, spiders, snakes, and the ocean. Of getting sick and of dying. And when I’m sick, I spend hours on Google, crying to myself, panicking that I have some disease.

You say that you love my hair. The length, the color, the softness. The way that you can rake your fingers through it and the way that it frames my face

What you don’t know is that I’ve dyed my hair so many times that I don’t even know what its natural color is. The length changes frequently because I can never decide on a length and I cut it so frequently. It takes hours of straightening it to make it so that it frames my face the way that you like it and I’ve used so many different hair products to make it soft just for you.

You say that you love me. But how can you when what you think is perfect about me is really the source of all of my imperfections? 

Writing Prompts!

Here, have some writing prompts to get you in the groove of writing! Use the quote or setting and write something - anything! It doesn't matter what you write as long as you start writing and don't stop!

Not on the Market

So, someone walked up to me today and she told me that she was getting married. This was a friend that I’d known since middle school and she’d know the boy since high school. I looked at her and while my face showed excitement, my heart screamed out to her “don’t do it! It’s a trap!” Speaking from experience, of course, and my abundance of marriage knowledge.

Later that day, she told me that even though I wasn’t really dating anyone right now, I’ve probably already met the person I’m going to marry. She also said that by age 16, 80% of people have already met the person they’re going to marry. Well, listen here, Girl Scout, I’m not buying your cookies. There’s no way that’s true. Let’s think about this for a minute. By age 16 and I’m 23, now? I don’t think so…

There’s Jim. We go to the gym together. Funny, I know. But I met him there one day, I was running on the treadmill and he thought that it would be smooth to come up behind me and check. Out. My behind. No, no, no, Jim, that’s not very nice. And while we had coffee once in the lounge area, thanks for spending that $0.75 on the K-cup for me, and the conversation was semi-intelligent, I don’t think I would want to marry you.

Well, there’s always Max. There’s a good man. But he’s 34 with two kids and I think my father would him through a wall before he let him marry me. But he’s always been a gentleman. We met at my niece’s dance recital. His daughter was in it, too. We got to talk during intermission and we ended up exchanging information. Now we email back and forth, mostly when we’re putting off doing our work and want to look like we’re busy. No, Max, I’m sorry, but despite what my father would say, I don’t think that you’re exactly the one for me.

Who else? Oh! Mr. Radley down the street? Although, I’m not too sure about him. I don’t think that I’m quite his type. He often has bikes parked out side his house. No, not bikes like motorcycles, but bikes like with the hand brakes that the neighborhood boys would ride. Well, I know that he bakes a lot and does make some good lemonade, but let’s just say that I was never invited inside.

Roger, what about you? You’ve got the damaged rocker air about you. And if I’m being honest, my track record does show that I like damaged men. I want to fix them somehow, but I don’t think I could fix you. You’re sweet, and I’d definitely like to drink a lot of tequila with you and make that same mistake over again, but I think I’d rather have you as an affair – not a husband.

So that’s only four, but I can’t count all of the men I’ve come across since I was 16. I do know, however, that if they’re in the past teenage years, it’s probably for a reason and well, if I’m not dating them now, then that’s probably for a reason, too. So from now on, when someone asks me if I’m in a relationship, then the answer is yes. It’s a long distance one because my boyfriend lives in the future and I live in the present.

Hide it Now - Drink it Later

Know what’s great about vodka? Vodka doesn’t have a scent if you mix it with the right thing. I usually go for some Cyrstal Light; the fruit punch flavor. It’s pretty good and almost tasteless. It’s good in orange juice, too. That’s how I start a lot of my mornings. Cereal and a screwdriver. Vodka does a great job at letting the mixer overpower its flavor. It’s not really cocky like other hard liquors that just have to be present and give the back of your throat that tingle that makes you wonder if you’re going to throw up. But vodka doesn’t affect me the way other alcohols do.

Know what’s great about rum? Rum can go in anything and rum gets me drunk faster than any of the other liquors. From juice, just like what I put the vodka in, to coke. That’s usually what I drink at the bar, rum and coke. It’s sweet, but not too sweet and the bubbles are a bonus. They’re a new refreshing feeling going down my throat and mix well with that tickle. I only need about four rum and cokes to get me under the table, but I usually have a few more because I’m dancing and sweating it out. Don’t want that buzz to wear off before I go home.

Know what’s great about baileys and peppermint schnapps? Baileys goes well in my morning coffee and with the right creamer can’t be detected by someone that walks buy and catches a whiff of my coffee. I usually get compliments on “how good it smells” and they often ask, “what’s your secret?” I tell them it’s just my mixture of creamer products. Peppermint schnapps goes well in hot chocolate. On those mornings that I start with a vodka and orange juice, I don’t start with coffee. Instead, I bring some hot chocolate with peppermint schnapps and little marshmallows that float on the top. Mmm. Those are my favorite. And on those days, I bring a flask filled with a little extra. They’re not particularly strong, so I have to have enough to get me through the day without killing someone at work.

Know what’s great about beds? Beds have storage underneath, but my bed is especially genius. It’s not meant to have storage underneath, but if I lift my mattress, there are slats and I can see the carpeted floor. That storage underneath is awesome for hiding my bottles of vodka, rum, baileys, and peppermint schnapps. But really, that’s the beauty of it all. No one has a fucking clue what I’m hiding.

Serious Moment

Before I get back to writing my fiction and fiction writing tips, I want to talk about something that's very real and close to me. Yesterday, my heart broke, hearing about the bombings in Boston. That's too close to home for me. I'm from the North Shore area. I'd like to say that all of the families and friends that were affected by this tragedy are in my heart and prayers tonight. I haven't even begun to wrap my head around this, which is why it's taken me so long to even begin responding to this. I'd like to send this song out to all of you in the area, whether you were hurt, not hurt, helped, donated blood, had family or friends that were hurt, or are still waiting for someone that was in the area. God is with all of you. Remember that there are ways to help. Red Cross is always accepting blood donations. And here are some helpful links: Google Person Finder and Red Cross Safe and Well. Stay safe and God bless.

Definitely Not Toys for Tots

I sit in the corner of the room. He sits on the edge of the bed. We’re staring at each other. His phone is ringing in the other room.

Then it stops.

Then it rings again.

Then it stops.

Our eyes don’t leave the other no matter how much that stupid, 8-bit audio file of Mozart’s Requiem disturbs the heavy silence. This staring contest feels like it’s been going on for days, but I don’t dare to break it for a quick and useless glimpse at the clock. When I look at him, all I see is a liar. When he looks at me, all he sees is a broken toy.

First I thought that I was his GI Joe figure that he would keep under his pillow every night and show off to all of his friends. I quickly realized that I was the life-size Playboy that he stashed under his mattress.

I lost some pieces along the way. Like his Tonka truck lost wheels in the dirt outside. Or his yellow digger lost its front shovel in the sandbox. Each piece that I lost of me in him is probably buried out there in the backyard with the rest of the mutilated toys.

The pieces that I do have left of me seem like they’re in a different spot. It’s like Mr. Potato head with his arm in his eyehole and his feet where his hat should be. I was like a slinky in his hands. I bounced back from one hand to another and after all was said and done, I felt like I’d gone down the stairs a few times, too.

He molded me like PlayDoh. Made me into what he wanted, what would make him happy and then instead of putting me back in the jar, he left me out to dry. Where I cracked and eventually fell off the shelf and shattered.

In the end, I just blew him like he blew bubbles. And he violated me like I was Barbie.

His phone rings again.

Then it stops.

Then it rings again.

Then it stops.