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Your Heart Is Dented, But It Shines Bright Gold

I figured since people were posting stories, asking for constructive criticism, I would too. I appreciate anyone wanting to help out. <3


The walls have a heart beat.
I have bad timing; 'not tonight, not tonight.'
Hollow houses, hollow hearts, hollow stories, hollow eyes.
"I never wanted it to be this way."
Rough skin, sad eyes, good intentions, a bad execution.
Appear, fade away. Care, throw away.

"Your Heart Is Dented, But It Shines Bright Gold."

I admit I'm a little mixed up right now. You know, my mom used to be my hero.
Beautiful, graceful, smart, funny; everything a lady should be.
She had brights eyes, but that dimmed out when her dad died. She started drinking
and taking pills. She tried to find hope in the bottom of these bottles,
but all she found was disappointment and a shitty buzz.
Anyway, I guess we don't get along too well. She deserves more than she's
settled for in these substances and men.

We yell a lot. We call each other horrible names, and we hardly ever agree on anything.
Usually, a trip to Mom's means doing everything she asks me to, while getting yelled at.
I guess the only reason I go over there any more is because one day I won't be able to.
One day, the grip she has on those bottles will grip her right back, until she turns blue.
One day, I'll miss the smell of the laundry I have to fold for her,
and I'll miss that old couch I sleep on; the one with the uncomfortable springs.
Those springs are the couches bones, and they dig into me as I sleep.

One night, the bones were especially hard against my body, so I crawled into my mama's bed.
Startled, I heard her gasp. While she grabbed at me in the dark with her overworked,
and skin cancer plagued hands, her freshly painted fingernails dug into my skin.
I heard her say" Who is this!?" in a fear filled voice.
"It's me Mama, it's okay. I just wanted to sleep with you." I tried to reassure her.
"You scared the hell out of me, you know that!? Get out of here!"
Her fingernails released me, and I was free to go.
The way she let go of me physically made me think of how she let go so long ago.
Of her dreams, her self-control, and of her children.
I realized then, that the bones of the couch were it's scars.
Jutting out of it's surface, longing to embrace someone with whatever was holding it together.
It wasn't necessarily that the couch had been uncomfortable, it was simply that the opportunity to be in her arms
once more would feel better than to lay on the couch that had been as abused as I was; as it slowly fell apart.

Then, under the glow of the moonlight with tears hitting the fabric of that couch that had served me so well,
I realized that being held only had meaning when you knew that person wanted you there, as much as you wanted to be there.
Having arms wrapped around you is only real when the heart between them is beating for you. Rooting for you. Believing in you.

That night, I made my bed in my Mama's favorite chair. The memory of the smell from the perfume she wore when I was a child,
almost overtook that of the pungent smell of vodka and xanax, of disappointment and bitterness, that now seeped through her pores.
Almost.