This has been sat in my folder for a while, the more personal the tale the harder it is to post.
Language is much more than the words we say. Language is the meaning behind those words, both the literal definition and the meaning we put on it ourselves. ‘Yes’ indicates the positive but said in the right tone of voice it can mean the very opposite. ‘Literally’ used in certain ways can mean ‘figuratively’ – but I’m not here to argue about the benefits of a language that grows and changes with its speakers.
As an asexual person I can’t use the words ‘hot’ or ‘sexy’. I’m not saying that I’ve been prohibited from using those words; this is all my own problem. It’s just that they make me uncomfortable; they feel wrong on my tongue. But I still find people attractive, just because I don’t feel sexual attraction doesn’t mean I can’t appreciate a nice face.
I mostly write fiction but this is something else. A sort of ten minute essay/brain splurge of thoughts on my first kiss.
They tell you that your first kiss will stop all time, the world will blur at the edges and all of your senses will be focused on that one moment in time when your lips meet another’s.
The movies are bullshit.
Look, poetry is not my strong suit but this happened. It won't mould into a piece of prose and I don't want it to.
Sometimes I worry that my heart will stop beating
When everything is silent and dark; when I lay just right and I can hear it thud
I worry that it will just
So I move
Shuffle until I can’t hear it anymore.
Then I worry that it will stop and I won’t even notice.
I wonder if that would be a peaceful way to die.
I wonder how long it would take before someone broke down my door to find me.
Sometimes I worry that my friends don’t love me as much I love them.
Texts not replied to; conversations with an abrupt end.
I worry that they grow tired of hearing me moan, of invites turned down because I can’t bear to leave the house that week, that month.
I don’t know if my friends love me as much as I love them and if it is my fault.
Sometimes I worry that I’ll never achieve the things I want to.
Hours spent in front of the laptop; not creating, just wasting.
Time where I could be doing more.
Not starting at all is easier than failing entirely.
It can’t be awful if it doesn’t exist.
Time passes and ‘I’ll do it tomorrow’ becomes ‘I’ll do it next week’ becomes ‘this month doesn’t count, it’s been a bad month’.
Guilt grows and mutates, anxiety crushes me under its weight. And still I do nothing.
I’m afraid that I’m not good enough to achieve the things I want to.
Sometimes I worry that people in the street are watching and judging me.
They have their own lives to get on with, they can’t be.
But I’m still afraid.
A laugh over the road, a coincidental glance.
So I walk with my head down, no eye contact. Walk too quick for anyone to stop me.
Slide through crowds, no touching, maybe no one will notice I am there.
Maybe I’ll stay at home this weekend. Next weekend. This whole month.
I wonder if my fear of being watched, being seen makes me self-centred.
Sometimes I worry that my parents would be disappointed in me if I told them everything.
Making excuses instead of explaining.
Telling them I’m happy on my own is easier than telling them anything at all.
If I tell them why I probably won’t have children, won’t have a wedding
Maybe they’ll think I’m broken.
I don’t want them to think I’m broken.
So I won’t tell them anything.
I’m afraid of what my parents would think of me if I told them.
Sometimes I worry that I worry too much.
But I can’t stop.
A note: So this may be a little autobiographical, haha.
She could feel the warmth of his hand through the thick material of her jeans; placed ever so gently but purposefully on her thigh. She was sure this was the point where she was supposed to melt a little, smile bashfully and maybe blush. Instead she felt cold and uncomfortable, tempted to cry and walk away and scratch away her skin all at once. She matched his movements, gently but purposefully picking up his hand and moving it back to his own leg. He laughed a bit, surprised but not yet put off. They kept talking, he was interesting and they had several things in common. As they chatted he slowly placed his hand back on her thigh, even higher up this time.
Tales written from a prompt in just 10 minutes.
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