Let me tell you a little about myself

Chapter 4

I wish I could say that I was doing something sexy, like taking a drag off of my half finished cigarette and watching the smoke dance in the air, but no such luck. I'm more of a "stare into space and sip on my diet coke with a chaser of reality" type girl. The edges of the yellow pages in front of me are curled up from the humidity in the air. The air has been alive with the dance many times, and the smoke has left a near palpable change in the room.

I hate doing this.

I tap my pen along with the music, with my heart beat, and for a second, I can almost feel my blood turn to ink and the pen to bone.

I hate feeling so much.

I am afraid that I will be afraid for the rest of my life. It amazes me how a man so small can do so much damage. I hate to admit it, but with all of my bravado and wit, sometimes, there is nothing of my passion but ashes. I wake up some nights, still feeling him hold me down, still gasping for air, waving my arms in a pathetic attempt to fend off the inevitable. I tell my husband that I have nightmares.

I don't.

I have memories.

Some days it's like my mind is a shattered Picasso. Even if I were to put it back together, it still wouldn't quite make sense. Luckily, it doesn't ever lack color or texture.

I'm back to staring into space again, wondering where to go from here. My mind has a million miles to go before it sleeps. The roads are paved with broken glass and dreams, and these heels are killing me.

And I think the map is wrong.

But i have to keep moving anyway.

I think about standing up, pacing around the empty bar. But I stay stationary, swinging my legs softly under the table, trying to force words out of my brain. I have never really worked well under pressure, especially creatively. Every once in a while, I feel like I'm not in control, like the words and the rhyme choose when and how they come to me.

I swear, I'm the only person who dreams in letters instead of colors.

The air in the bar seems opressively thick, like it's slowly crushing me to death. I can smell stale vanilla cigar smoke in my hair now, and it's driving me insane. I feel like I'm melting into this place the more I let myself go.

Eventually, my body will sink into the faux leather stool and mahogany colored plastic table. I'll be as fake as everything else here.

And I won't have to worry about the truth anymore.