Scribblings Of A Dramatic Introvert

Life 307 "You don't get what you want , you get what you get."  -Gregory House "Maybe you could've made better decisions." I offered, as Sam opened another bottle and passed it to me.  He nodded, taking a swig straight from the beer bottle in his hand, "I've been told I married the wrong girl. Your mother said she's bad luck."  He was staring at the night sky, reaching his hand to slap at a mosquito drumming in his ears, audible enough for us both to hear and cringe-  a downside to living in the slums of Agege. "I don't think so. Your wife is awesome." I wasn't kidding, Rose was the best woman I had ever met. When I was younger, I created an image of my own future spouse just by looking at her. He scoffed and watched me squeeze my eyes shut as I gulped from my bottle. "It's a mess. My life is riddled with bad luck. Just mine." I opened my eyes and tried to peer into his, under the moonlight. I saw the regret ...

My brother gave me the scar on my left wrist. That was nowhere near his fault. I can't recall what the fight had been about, but it ended with a wrestle with me claiming I could beat him up. The war of superiority. We heard the crash of the ceramic plates- the ones we refused to pack up after lunch- onto the hard tiled floor, as we were locked in on each other, trying to inflict injury on the barest visible flesh on the other contender. I felt the sting of pain, and it was when I started screaming we realized there was blood all over the floor. I got stitches in some hours later. We had a shouting battle a couple of years ago though. There wasn't a turning point after that fight. He bought me a bracelet for my last birthday. He regrets the wrist incidence, even if he never said it. I've never seen him so scared all my life. Even worse, I'd never seen concern so evident on our parents face, but dad is a jolly good man. I told him this evening to practice the walk down th...

Rotting leaves sweep into the dim-lighted room as the cold wind blows hard around the building. I can faintly hear the old nurse lady whisper to the Reverend, "she won't see the morning light." It's been a year since I first felt your presence, Santa Muerte. That bright Sunday morning that brought dusk early, when brother fell and I choked on my tears, begging the Lord for answers. His skin had blackened as his eyes slowly turned out. I was peering down at him, his gaze holding mine, while the life left him. Tonight, I'm going to be the loss. I want to see you as you come for me. To hold your eyes, while I slowly feel my grasp losing from what light is left in me. I can feel my lungs collapse as I hear the distant wheeze. Mine, maybe. Now I understand the phrase, "as you draw your last breath". Hades.  I want to scream, as you wrap your claws around my throat. Pain.  Realization that I am last of our name, and no one left of my bloodline would mourn me. ...

The caret is blinking on my screen, urging me to click letter after letter as I try to create a post about the story of us.  Yet minutes later, I find myself mesmerized by your B/W JPEG on my screensaver. Lost in your eyes.  You'd been gazing right at me as I took the picture, mumbling about my annoying penchant for snapping you at the oddest of times. I was being silly- joking in the most serious of times, you had told me as I took several snapshots, definitely getting that smile to reach your eyes. You're so beautiful, and I beg you to indulge me as I devote myself a sucker for you. My goofiness ain't it, you keep saying. Yet your eyes tell me you'd keep me goofy all our lives. You said you'll die first before losing me. I believed you. You could've lied in my face, and I'd be damned if I fail to admit how great you are at it. You made me royalty. Yours mostly. Once you caught me in your arms and backed me up against a wall, your breath fanning my neck as ...

"Do you want to talk about it?" She asked, handing me a glass of water.  I'm  staring at the clock mounted above her.  Forty five seconds.  It wasn't just about you forcing yourself onto me. When you ripped my dress, I choked on my own screams. It was shock. They never told me it leaves you utterly confounded. You shoved my head against the headboard. That must have been when I stopped thinking. It didn't matter what I did. I was ruined in that moment. Hours, days or light years. It took forever. I mentally counted the ticks off the large wall clock high up and close to the ceiling.  I recall the seconds hand was hanging onto 1 for so long when I got caught in the envelope of pain; it ticked ever slowly as you pushed harder, I thought I was going to die when it reached 6. It struck 10 and you grunted, lifting off me.  Everything became a blend of blur. There was pain. The physical one when you entered me. There was the other pain; I was locked up in it. Yo...

Hi,   I'm trying not to write poems or sad stuff.   It was all jokes when you first tried it. Just another silly habit everyone indulged in, but you were bored so why not try something new. How disappointing it was on first try. Overrated. Crap.  They said it felt like heaven. Some losers said it was their addiction, but you weren’t hitting it.  So you tried it once more, and it definitely got better. Just not on that level you believed it led to. And here, you gave it up. For a couple of years. Scoffing at the helpless addicts.  Could never be me, you pitched confidently. Once a while, you tried it out. No addiction, right in their faces.  The universe must’ve been playing a joke on you. Today, you lay here with tears burning your cheeks. You’ve hit a high thrice today and you just can’t stop. You badly want to, but you know when that voice gets stronger than your willpower, you would give in once more.  Prayers won’t suffice anymore than they on...

XVI I tried to cry in my closet but I couldn't. Five stages of grief and I'm stuck at emptiness. I stopped letting the pictures flood my mind and when your laughter rang in my head, I blocked it out. Whenever your voice echoed in my thoughts, I willed myself to stop. Without thinking I clicked delete to every picture that had your face, every tag. I wanted to move on, so I stopped thinking about you. How you died. Running from a police raid on every young man that so much as looked free-spirited. They said you ran into an incoming motorcycle, yet someway, ended with your head bashed against the tyres of a truck. Or crushed, was it? I didn't want to think about the fact I wasn't thinking about you, so I stopped that too. Today makes it a long time since you left. I swear I forgot the date of that Sunday. June? It was a Sunday, because we'd gone to church together, and then later at night you offere...