Two Fatal Blows

Words were launched, sharp like arrows, aimed to kill.
Volley after volley, blotting out the sun, blackening the sky.
Each one found its mark, severing arteries, tearing flesh, spilling blood.
She shot with accuracy, never missing a beat.
He aimed at random but his sporadic shots caught vital organs.

Their armor was as useless as mist, hardly deflecting a breath.
The ground was bright red.
The air hinted of decay.
There would be no winner at the end of this war.

When they called off their firing, when the smoke from the battle cleared, no victory was found.
Only two broken beings, slashed and ripped apart, falling to their knees in agony.
The death of what lay between them wasn't easy.
It was long.
It was torture.
It ripped out their hearts.
It smothered their cries.

But neither warrior breathed a hint of remorse.
They both felt the righteousness of their call to battle.
They both felt the other in the wrong.
Their war was swift.
Their war was brutal.
And their war was one from which no allies could hope to be recovered.

They thought it was a battle to the death,
but they were fighting Death all along,
and it was not in Death's nature to be overthrown.
And in the end, it dealt two fatal blows.

The Monstrous Beast

She paces anxiously.
Its going to be a long day with all these nerves.  Nerves over nothing and everything all at once.
She slides her long locks into a ponytail in record time.  The tale-tale sign of her all time high stress.
She paints on the black kohl liner and layers of black mascara.  War paint.  War with no one.  War with herself.
She pops the collar of her black leather jacket and sucks in a deep breath.  The hot pink and turquoise and violet call from her closet.
No.  Stick to Black.  Black is strong.  Black is safe.  She chides her ridiculous imagination.
Black helps her fight.  It helps her come off strong, the ever impenetrable fortress of bitterness and thorns.
But really, it just gives her a way out.  A way out of making the choices that color would make imperative.
The darkness does its job, hiding her from sight, bubbling around her like a poison and forcing them away.
If they're scared, they wont try to get in.
She struts across the pavement, her signature walk screaming of confidence and intensity and made up of lie after lie.
The anxiety expands, sucking her breath and thought and threatening to revisit her minuscule breakfast.
She acts fast, using a learned tactic to combat the nausea.
1,2,3,4,5,6,7,8.  1,2,3,4,5,6,7,8.  She counts in her head to the imaginary music her feet pound out on the sidewalk.
Focus on the numbers and the anxiety can't take complete control.
A passing girls laugh catches her mid number and steals her attention.
What would that be like?
To walk and laugh and talk without headache inducing nausea and shortness of breath?
To trade inside jokes with friends and act like a kid and not care who sees?
What would it be like if you weren't worried what everyone was thinking of you all the time?
If you could walk into a room with a chest full of air and not be paranoid that people are talking about you?
She tries the trick she read online.  Four counts breathing in, and eight counts out.  The pain in her chest goes away. 
No use dwelling on 'what if' while reality gnaws a whole in your stomach.  She reminds herself as the thoughts float away, leaving the monstrous beast of fear and panic settled behind her navel.

One day, I'll know what it's like to wave goodbye to the beast.

Dandelions and Stars

I wish you could see yourself through my eyes.
How breath-taking you are when you smile.
How earth-shattering the sound of your laugh is.
How nerve-wracking your gaze is.

I wish you could see me the way I see you.
As a ray of hope.
As a future.
As a promise that better things are yet to come.

I wish I could be blatantly honest with you,
and tell you how amazing you are.
Tell you how your name sets off butterflies in my stomach.
Tell you how I dream of a life of you and me.

I wish I had met you six years ago.
I wish I hadn't skipped that first semester.
I wish you had walked into my life earlier.
I wish I had more time to spend with you.

But I suppose blowing on dandelions and wishing on stars will have to do for now, and when I see you again, maybe things will be different.  And maybe I'll get to do a little more thanking and a little less wishing.

You Taught Me

You taught me well without even knowing.
You showed me the cruelest moments of life without lifting a finger.
I learned how to love.
How to be inexplicably enamored and infatuated.
I learned what it's like to live a cliché.
To be the princess who falls for the villain.
To be the damsel in distress.
I learned, from you, how to lose myself in someone else.
To be so infatuated by someone else's power and intrigue that I forget to live my own life.
I learned to be blind to the truths spilling from the mouths of those around me.
To shut my mind and ignore and push away and fight whoever spoke against your name.
I learned so much from you.
I learned what heartache felt like.
How nothing seems to matter except for you walking away from me and the ever widening hole in my chest.
I learned how to grieve for someone that never died.
The body wracking sobs and gasps for air, praying that the aching would end. Suffocating in a pillow to muffle the sound of broken wails.
I learned how to live in a black cloud.
To bundle up in many blankets trying to keep the shivers at bay.
To stop eating when everything tastes like ash.
To hold the tears on the brink and not let them fall when people are around.
I learned not to get my hopes up because I'll always be left in the end.
Not to hope.
Not to dream.
Not to envision a future with anyone.
And when I ignore those little lessons you taught me, when I try and follow my heart, I end up here again. Holding back the tears. Choking on my questions. Spinning like a top in a whirlwind of confusion. Asking, how did this happen? What did I do to deserve this? Why was I so stupid?
Thank you for your lessons. For all the little gems of knowledge I acquired through your use of me. Maybe next time I'll be smart enough to listen to them.

Reaching The Top

Nothing about him came softly.
Not quiet, serene, or gentle.
Not unassuming or calm or mild.
He blew in, a boisterous wind that gave you little choice but to pay attention.
And as soon as she looked, she was entranced.
Gone, like Alice down the rabbit hole, lost to a world of whimsical imagination and him, him, him.
In every action, every word, every thought, there he was smiling, joking, laughing, capturing her heart without the slightest clue.
He was a good thing for her, in that way.
He taught her that butterflies really could be a good thing.
That smitten was in no way an outdated word.
That fairy tales were alive and well and playing out in her world. She looked at him with feelings that had long been absent from her heart.
With hope and promise.
With giddy excitement and nervous giggles.
With true joy.
He was her summer breeze.
Her fresh air.
Her change of scenery.
And that sliver of hope, with it's peculiar strength held firm through doubt and fear and angry words. While everyone doubted, she yet hoped.
Because she knew as they didn't the way his eyes constantly searched her face, watching for a smile or some envoy of friendship.
She knew as they did not the nervous glances exchanged between the two.
She saw in him the promise they refused to see in the world and she let it fill her up.
Bursting with nerves and smiles and pent up exhilaration, she set her sights on that impossibly high peak of joy, certain for some reason that he could aid her in the journey.
And she found solace in the idea of resting beside him when they reached the top.