#wordsonrepeat

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Phase I: I screamed and twisted and cursed the night in your name--scratch that--with your name. I cursed it for existing, for reminding me that we existed, for allowing such a dark, raven-winged hue to continue existing past the point of helpless, pitiful cries that my mother hesitated to interrupt. She didn't want to be caught in the crossfire of our relationship. Neither did I. Phase II: I walked numb to the world, numb to the linking of words that people requested of me. The questions of us and what our label was, what words we attached to each other was a pounding, throbbing hangover in the middle of a summer's day. More painful because I couldn't make myself stop drinking you and the little things you gave me. I would drown myself in you if you'd let me. Phase III: I spent the summer months away and I met a nice guy. He speaks with such emotion, or maybe it's just a faint form of understanding. I wonder sometimes what happened to my shadow and if it still dances with yours at night. They were intertwined from the beginning. I know that much to be true, even if the rest turns out to be moon dust and star shimmer.

3 phases of writing about you

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xx trigger

I always used to tell you that,

should the improbable case of 

sudden murder fall upon us both,

I'd volunteer in your spot to save

you, I always insisted nothing 

would hurt me as much as seeing

you hurt, always insisted, insisted

until I realized that the person 

with their finger on the trigger 

had only ever been you.

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xx electricity

You were a quick crackle of flame of heat, a reaction sparking within  the confines of my too small chest  and from behind my square glasses.  It was either the way our fingers translated jumps in the static field or the way your voice could make  mine sputter or fizzle out in response. The means don't matter anymore; just come over here and make my bones purr that rhythmic murmur again beneath these low lights and beaming candles, make my lips hiss from all the energy blazing between our sternum's resonating heart beats.

[wordsonrepeat]

WRITING TIP #4

Don't force yourself.  If you've hit a block or you just don't feel like writing, then don't.  Whatever it is that makes you want to write, it'll come back.  I swear!  Do whatever it is you love to do.  Writing will always come back to you.  A breather never hurt anyone.

[wordsonrepeat]

SUBMISSION CALL

Wow guys, we're so sorry we've been kind of MIA as of late...school's been crazy.  All of us have been finishing up APs and finals for the past few weeks, but we're trying to get ourselves together again!  Please submit your work to keep wordsonrepeat going!

Amanda, Megan, and Mieko

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xx brown

i met his eyes first. i glanced up from the brightness of my laptop before i saw his eyes--his handsome eyes--and i crumbled willingly under everything that resided there. he was the earth in that moment, all warmth and strength, all deep caverns to explore and arching canyon straights to cross. i blinked, breathed deeply, and he grinned sheepishly in return before blinking back, down, and away.

"Try to describe brown eyes without using the words 'brown' or 'chocolate'.”

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I would welcome a hickie

Right about now, I would welcome a hickie. I woke up the other night sweating over you, and I'm stuck wondering whether it was simple lust or that I really did want some sense of 'love' out of you.

Maybe that's all we were meant for. Wanting each other, without having. Touching but never getting beneath the surface. A beginning with a definitive, halting end. Maybe this book doesn't really have a happy ending. Maybe we were only meant to be lovers. (Or rather, FWB.)

Although I have to admit, I wonder if you even want that from me anymore.

I used to always tell you to 'watch my neck', or to 'not give me a hickie'. I didn't want anyone to see you had me like that, I didn't want anyone to know. Now, I want you to suck on my skin until you make your mark and then continue on, make another one--I want you to own me, label me as yours. Won't you do that for me? Won't you claim me for what we've had all these months?

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xx consequences 35

What do you want? An Artist-- unimpressed by great cargo of mahogany and rosewood of velvet and silk of traveling light. The antithesis of interest.