If you don't have the "Chiller" font, get it. This update will look like shit without it. Then again, it's not about looks, anyway, is it?
The Spirit She
Written by: Alex Sandell
The spirit of her seeps out from under the crack of the door that hasn't been opened since the day that she left. Sometimes I feel her, when I walk by. The bitter whisper of a memory. I want to feel her again. I want to hear her laugh. The door is all that stands between me and the past. If I kick it down and see that emptiness is all it conceals, maybe then I'll move on. It's over (she told me that)! It's over at last! I want her to leave me alone.
Ironic, the wish that I wish when I wish for loneliness, because that's the one thing that she left me with. I just want her to be gone, now that she's left. I don't want to see the peanut butter she bought me. I don't want to see the bed that we fucked in. I don't want to remember the feeling of her soft skin and the way her hair tickled my cheeks. I don't want to see the groceries we filled the shelves with at the beginning of our new life. "Lives," it's "lives," not "life," we weren't one. I have to separate who she is, who I was, what I am and what she has done. I'll never fuck her in that bed again.
She'll never watch the movies we ordered. She'll never walk with me to the library that we discovered. "It's so close!" she said, pleased with the world, and then, then she was gone. It's not going to happen. She's not coming back. Thoughts damn the dreamer when he dreams of the past. I cannot breathe. She's out of my grasp. She's not mine. She's not mine. She's not mine anymore. Or, is it that I'm not hers?
The doll in the corner sits in a bag that reads, "be mine." It was a gift that she gave me. It put a smile on my face. A simple gift. THAT FUCKING DOLL, THAT SON OF A BITCH! It's a reminder, it's bile, it's not more than shit. Why did she take me, if she was only going to give me away? I want to stuff that doll down the garbage disposal and then puke in the sink. I want to rid myself of the her that I remember, and stare at the vomit that she now is. How did she turn to this?
No explanation. No explanation. Why? I've called her so many times. "Why?" I asked. "Why?!?" No answer. Just, "fuck off" and a click of the phone. Call back, get busy tone. "It's over" was what she said at the beginning of the new end damning me to start my life all over again. It was just over. "Over. Over. OveR. OvER. OVER. OVER. FUCK OFF!" **If you'd like to make a call....**
I miss her. I hate her. I love her. I see her behind that door. She invites me into that room. She beckons me. I hear her laughing. Sometimes I think she'll "be mine" again and I'll tell her I love her, and all will be well.
Those are the times I'd like to forget.
Copyright 1999 Alex Sandell [All Rights Reserved].
email alex at firstname.lastname@example.org or email@example.com
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