Member-only story
The Authentic Eclectic
I Write Better When I’m Sad
So, don’t test my limits
There’s nothing sweeter than the words, Maybe one day you will write a book about it.
I’ve had a couple of people say this to me after treating me like garbage; A manipulative tactic where they reel you in by a hook in your lip. You’re gushing blood but somehow they remain the victim.
The human in me tends to put the so-called victim at ease, letting them know how ridiculous an idea it is. But the author in me? She drifts far off into chapters of possibility, all while pulling the hook from her lip and sewing up the damage like it never happened.
But don’t worry…she could never forget.
She collects scars like her mother collects vinyl…like her lover collects crystals.
Her scars are seashells.
Walking along the shore of her beach, she searches for the lucky one; The one who will speak to her after maybe being held by a few strangers.
On her beach there are rocks, driftwood, and seaweed she’s gathered from others; They are the lessons, stories, and growing pains to have added to her collection.
Some mean everything, some mean nothing, and some have yet to be understood.
