By Laura
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As I write this I am sincerely crying; the wet deviants flow onto my lap. Do not mistake this as an attempt to elicit sympathy, as that is not my intention. Rather, I hope that the expression of my sadness to someone-anyone-will ultimately end this unseasonable period of self-pity. I really could not care less if I do not know you in person or if you disagree with how I am feeling, you are a person and that is all that matters.
There is this woman that I love, and that I have loved for some time. I have grown quite fond of her in such a short time, but I wish I did not, as it troubles me so. Her hair is kept short and the rich brown color is the envy of many. A set of hazel stars light up her face, further calling attention to her alluring hair. They sometimes trap me beneath their glow and an effervescent feeling wells inside of me; I cannot look away. And finally her enticing crimson lips are the source of my yearning. It is disheartening that she does not see me this way and that it may prove that she could never see me this way. Based on this fact, I am unsure why I have not looked away and moved on. At this point, I fear that it will not be possible. To you, the reader, your eyes have not deceived you, I do indeed love another woman. The only sort of solace I can take at this moment is in my sprained ankle, the swelling and raw skin that pulses evenly with my heart. I'm not sure what's worse, the fact that this proves to Adrenal that I am a masochist, or that I wish to twist my ankle in such a way as to distort it even more, so as to take more pleasure from it.
Alas, suger o'er the Devil still leaves a bitter hell.
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