Trying to heal before I’ve been hurt

My best friend ,  with her newly growing umber locks, warned me to hurry and catch my balance in love …to stop falling for that marvelous french boy, before it was to late. We all knew that he loved his home , in the once french ruled islands of the Caribbean. But I thought he also loved me, or at least cared. It felt like he did in sporadic moments , when I’d be  so ineffably pissed with him that he could sense it, as I passed him wordlessly in the halls of our small miserable school. He would pull me into a hug and ask me what was wrong, or come sit shyly besides me and coax my pen from my journal to explain once more what I knew shortly after I met him…his life was a maelstrom of everything wrong that had ever happened to a kid (or perhaps in my adoration of him, I am too sympathetic) . But I listened, because the tune of his voice is my favorite melody and the absence of it ,for too long, springs tears in my ducts and a dull ache, made vibrant by the histrionics of my imagination, in my heart.

But, now Easter vacation has come and he’s gone back finally to visit the land that cradled his infancy and blossoming adolescence. He told me , un-quiveringly , on the last day of school, that he wasn’t absolutely certain he was coming back. So I sighed. But, I didn’t believe him at all. I thought I knew he’d be back  for sure, for his education and for me. But now, as the days go on, five days exactly have passed, my certainty wanes . How many times had he complained of Trinidad and longed for his home’s sun?

What did this country really hold for him? He says he needs no one, that he’s alright with being alone. But I think  he’s just inured to the old loneliess that consumed him, he learned to mask it ,and move on with his existence . But what of a life, that goes past teenage years, passes smoking mary`jane and distrusting everyone? Am I really supposed to believe that he wants no more from life? I didn’t believe so, but now I feel that he might become so intoxicated with the possibility of getting his old life back..it’ll all slip away. He’ll forget education and me, while under the haze of  marijuana and rum. Or maybe, it won’t be the same.

The maybe is what I hold to. Maybe, he’ll think of how I adore him and know its not weakening to be loved, but empowering. That’s all I really want him to know.

p.s Of course there’s more, but for now i’m finished.

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Hands up

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He shouted, cigarette resting on his lips , as his girl watched. Her blush rose to her cheeks. She knew well that boys like him would never grow up. They were the Peter Pans Of reality. They would never think themselves too old to prove their masculinity… point a generational gun at another man’s head. He was the type of boy that promised to kill , with the kiss of silver bullets to flesh. His kisses were frequent and arbitrary , but always worth it to him.

His girl watched, leaning on his stolen cadillac shuddering yet fascinated. He was a powerful beast- disloyal to everyone, candid, deluded, young, pretty , and ambitious..in his own way. He was the only person she doted over, though he rarely told anyone that that she was his.

But still  she stayed. The allure of his nonchalance and his fervent fury about life beguiled her. He was perfect danger. So she stayed leaning on the door of the caddy as he blew death into his victim’s throat.