Since mom was talking how fanfic was just 'derivative' and that it didn't matter, bla bla bla...
I finally wrote an original shortfic just to shut her up about it.
(Yes I'm a terrible daughter.)
So in case anyone's interested, let me know.
I don't have the words
I just can't seem to find the words today. Slippery is what they are, doubts flooding over you, none of them willing to stick. Makes you want to cover up in glue and hope some of it stays behind. But it doesn't work that way, not for me at least, words slipping through your fingers like drops in a river.
Leaving nothing behind but cold dreary clothes clinging to your skin and mud stuck between your toes.
So hear me, pitying myself, hear me yell and blather on and on, in things that don't interest you in the least. Yes you, you trying to ignore me, trying to stand there, pretending to listen while in reality you're sitting in that chair watching Baywatch.
Sure, it's all intellectual. Right.
Makes me wonder why I stood there, watching you.
I wish I could write it down, what I couldn't tell you, even on the worst days. About your dark skin, your black curls, your deep brown eyes. How harsh your lips felt when they brushed mine, how your skin itched, you needed to shave so badly.
I wanted to describe what it was like to feel your hands holding mine, uncomfortably so. I wish I could describe your voice, soft and low, bow down sweet chariot.
I stood there behind the cash register, watching your ass as you bowed down to grab another crate, helping out you'd call it. I just wanted to watch you, remind myself you were mine. Mine... Really... And that it did matter.
That it mattered that you held my hand as we walked, that it did matter that you stood there, waiting while I worked, that you were there. And it didn't.
I dreamed of fairytales, of forever after.
And since I couldn't get those, you would do.
You ordered me a drink, I watched you, watching me.
You would do, for now.
And how I used you, as you used me.
It wasn't real, it hit me more than once. Each time you came and I wanted you gone, hoping for you to return at the same time. I wished you gone, and I couldn't tell you to go.
We went for one drink, you talked about marriage, and I actually considered it. You weren't my fairytale, but you were there, and I thought it could be enough.
I wanted to say it, "I don't love you".
But I couldn't.
The words never came.