PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

     There they were, sprawled out in pink ink on her oak desk.  The print was lacey, effortless, but in truth, she spent every last emotion into every character carefully sculpted.  He never knew how she wrote those letters, painfully pleading every passion to his eyes, but they never reached him.  They were bound in scarlet ribbons, sometimes sealed with a kiss, or a tear.  

    She didn't dare send those letters.  She could imagine his critical charcoal eyes grazing over the fine penmanship, reading each phrase, poker-faced and uncaring.  He knew how he hurt her.  She didn't need to tell him.  He would then crumple the satin paper in his cruel fists and exile it to the waste basket.  He knew how he hurt her.  And he loved it, more than he loved her.

    Call him Sadistic.  He was that kind of guy that sent ruby roses veiled in baby's breath with a little note that said, "Dear Beautiful, here are roses for the girl of my dreams."  He would sign it in his messy, crude cursive, but her giddy eyes would not hold his writing in contempt;  she eagerly consumed the little messages with black hearts for pupils, naive of the phoniness in the cliche. She was consumed, engulfed as a tide over intimidated sand.  She, too, wrote letters, but her feelings in the letter ran deeper than a razor in a vein.  He was that kind of guy who opened the car door, paid the tab at restaurants, and sent flowers for anniversaries.   He wrenched at her heart, opened it for himself, and then tore it in half.  Call him Sadistic, because that's who he was.  

    Beautiful doodled in class with maroon gel pens, winding hearts around their names and sighing at the butterflies looming in her stomach for him.  The "nerdy" guy behind her snuffled nervously as he tapped her softly on the shoulder.  "Uhh, do you think I could have your number in case I need help on the lab tonight?"  Beautiful was no fool, and she knew that a guy like him didn't need help on the science lab due on Thursday, but she supplied him with the seven-digit number anyways.  There was no way he would call;  he didn't have the guts.  Besides, Sadistic would kill him if he did.