Post by Laura on Jan 26, 2006 19:58:12 GMT -6
a/n: I can't make this better. I just wrote what happened.
Sand
Clean cut, focused, and unpopular he was. It was not surprising he extended his hand for her to take. She was mysterious, unattractive . . . a poet.
He had a hard time explaining. He wasn’t aware how real a situation could be. It was past the eighteenth time; still, he had difficulty kissing her. He had no problem in stating the words. He would ask if he could touch her. He would but she would just look at the ceiling.
She constructed many ideas inside her mind on ways to tell him. Until she thought of something decent enough she led him to believe otherwise. She was growing tired of pretending though. She was growing tired of him.
She thinks:
No man can think this much of me when he barely knows me. He keeps saying he loves me and that I’m the most beautiful girl he’s ever met. I am not a pretty little skirt. Did he want my belt to undo itself or did he want the company of my hands? I can only understand the words; I can’t understand the meaning or the reasoning behind them when they come from him. His hands don’t feel right.
She screams inside herself:
HIS HANDS DON’T F**K**G FEEL RIGHT ON ME.
He could not understand what he did wrong. She couldn’t understand how he did nothing right. He cried and she wondered if it was for sympathy, guilt, affection or if he were truly shedding a tear because he truly felt something was there between them. A spark or a true emotion he had never experienced before her. She did not seem to care.
He slumped at the edge of her bed. She sat cross-legged in a corner on the floor. Her thoughts finally back in a straight line. He politely asked “may I have a Kleenex?” and she handed him a tissue. He had no boyish charm or fairy tale smile. He had no confidence or self-respect.
“Was this a waste?” he asked without thought. She wanted him to just get out. “You haven’t given me a chance” but she had, she said inside. “I still love you”. She cringed:
Please.
“Why don’t you let me convince you?” he patted the bed. She shook her head. He started weeping again. “I don’t love you” she finally said. He looked up with disbelief and frustration. “But you said . . .” he started, “I never said a word. I have been silent to you. I let you kiss me without saying it. I let you touch me without saying it. I will not let you f*ck me without saying it,”
He picked himself off the bed. “I’m sorry to hear that” and he walked away.
Sand
Clean cut, focused, and unpopular he was. It was not surprising he extended his hand for her to take. She was mysterious, unattractive . . . a poet.
He had a hard time explaining. He wasn’t aware how real a situation could be. It was past the eighteenth time; still, he had difficulty kissing her. He had no problem in stating the words. He would ask if he could touch her. He would but she would just look at the ceiling.
She constructed many ideas inside her mind on ways to tell him. Until she thought of something decent enough she led him to believe otherwise. She was growing tired of pretending though. She was growing tired of him.
She thinks:
No man can think this much of me when he barely knows me. He keeps saying he loves me and that I’m the most beautiful girl he’s ever met. I am not a pretty little skirt. Did he want my belt to undo itself or did he want the company of my hands? I can only understand the words; I can’t understand the meaning or the reasoning behind them when they come from him. His hands don’t feel right.
She screams inside herself:
HIS HANDS DON’T F**K**G FEEL RIGHT ON ME.
He could not understand what he did wrong. She couldn’t understand how he did nothing right. He cried and she wondered if it was for sympathy, guilt, affection or if he were truly shedding a tear because he truly felt something was there between them. A spark or a true emotion he had never experienced before her. She did not seem to care.
He slumped at the edge of her bed. She sat cross-legged in a corner on the floor. Her thoughts finally back in a straight line. He politely asked “may I have a Kleenex?” and she handed him a tissue. He had no boyish charm or fairy tale smile. He had no confidence or self-respect.
“Was this a waste?” he asked without thought. She wanted him to just get out. “You haven’t given me a chance” but she had, she said inside. “I still love you”. She cringed:
Please.
“Why don’t you let me convince you?” he patted the bed. She shook her head. He started weeping again. “I don’t love you” she finally said. He looked up with disbelief and frustration. “But you said . . .” he started, “I never said a word. I have been silent to you. I let you kiss me without saying it. I let you touch me without saying it. I will not let you f*ck me without saying it,”
He picked himself off the bed. “I’m sorry to hear that” and he walked away.