He used to weave me wreaths of daisies for my hair. I kept them all. In one box they have dried to an autumn crisp, in another are the ones that have begun their descent to black ash.
Every night, I open the boxes and try on each one. I breathe in the sweet rotting smell of decaying life. I wish their lively colors would return, if only for one night. After a few moments of childlike hoping, I pretend like I didn’t really want that to happen. I pretend like I prefer the crusty brown circles as they are. I force myself to smile as I carefully place each wreath back into its original place. I shove the boxes fiercely back under my bed. Still with that false grin plastered across my face, I thought maybe the grimace would force the tears away; it wouldn’t and I knew it, but I tried anyway.
At sunset we would go outside, lay on the hill, and talk and tell silly stories of our family and friends, and watch the sun descend from its throne in the sky. Now, when I see the sun ready to fall, I close the blinds. I shut my eyes. I don’t want to see it. Not without him.
On Sundays he would take me to a movie. He’d always make sure it was absolutely terrible. We would sit in the front row, create our own dialogue, and ignore the “Quiet you two!” calls from the rows behind us.
The day he wanted to leave me was a Sunday. I don’t watch movies anymore.
There are days I wish I’d never met him. There are days when I’m glad he is gone. There are days when I hate myself for being glad he is gone. Mostly, there are days  I wish I was beside him, wherever he really is.
I talk to him often. I wish he could talk back. I want to tell him so much. I suppose he’d like an explanation too, but I don’t think I want to tell him that. I just don’t think he would understand my reasoning; he never did before. I’ll tell him the truth though, I loved him too much to let him leave me.
I never want to forget him. Not the tiny birthmark on his right ring finger, not the way he would glide instead of walk, not the way he always smelled of rosemary, not the slightly too large curve of his bottom lip, and certainly not his watery eyes, whose cold liquids poised to spill over the rims of his eyelids at any moment.
I promised myself I would never forget him; I never break a promise.
Once he told me, as the sun set before us, that he wanted me to promise to never let him go and I agreed. I couldn’t let him go, even if I wanted to; so I didn’t.
On a Sunday, he said that we couldn’t do this anymore.
“Do what anymore?” I had asked.
“Be together.” he whispered.
“Why not? We are fine–”
He cut me off, “There’s someone else.”
I told him I couldn’t let him go. I really couldn’t. I never break a promise, no matter what.
He told me I had to let him go. “Don’t you love me?” he asked.
I nodded.
“Don’t you want me to be happy?”
I nodded.
“Well this is the only way.”
I only wanted him to be happy with me.
I looked at the brown shag carpeting on his apartment floor, and his moist eyes were too much for me to handle. I couldn’t let him go.
I told him I loved him. He fell quickly to the matted carpet. I wanted it to be as painless as possible.
He used to love me, he had said it was from the bottom of his heart. I kept it. In the box near the  wreaths, his shriveled heart remains. Sometimes I take it out and look for the love that might still be hidden away in the folds of dried tissue.

anyways… I think I will start a new trend called (drum roll please) Fictional Story Of The Week – to be replaced by nanowrimo whining in November.

This week’s title: Mutilation

Blood leaked from the slice of meat she called her right arm. She watched it pool in the crevices and pits of the ancient yellow-white tile floor. The scarlet rivulets rolled across the cool ceramic, and distracted her from the increasing pain that shot through her body; stemming from the once usable limb.
The throbbing hurt, after ravaging her lanky structure, came to rest at the nape of her neck. The steady thrum of agony made it impossible to function at all.
She attempted to rise from her twisted position on the now damp floor, but soon realized that all the energy she once possessed, had spilled from the broken pathways that were once her veins. She had mustered the strength to rise her torso an inch from the deepening puddle of red correction ink. She fell back with a splash. The weightless thud of her trunk hitting the solid floor, made no sound in the empty now-stained room.
Curled on the floor, she realized that it had become her personal vampire. The filthy four by five inch tiles seemed to gain the ability to suck the blood, the force, the life, from her already frail body.
She breathed in deeply, and flopped herself as softly as possible onto her stomach. For the first time, she could see her wound. The smooth cut stretched from wrist to shoulder. Her bird-like bones glistened with an unearthly shade of white. They nearly glittered beneath the harsh fluorescent lights.
Mesmerized by the contrast of sparkling ivory and deep, soupy crimson, she bent her now exposed elbow, in spite of the earth-shattering pain. The bones then loosened themselves from the suffocation prison of flesh, and protruded from the cooling laceration.
In seeing the detachment of her body, the fear of death, of dying, of no longer existing; consumed her and delivered a new power. She began to sweep drying fluid from the filthy ground with her remaining arm towards her injury; hoping the wave would find its old home. When that failed she scooped the thickening liquid with a cupped palm and poured it back into her sliced veins. The blood continued to drain out, even faster now. There can’t be much left she thought.
Whatever energy had been bestowed on her faded with disappointing rapidity. Her desperate motions slowed, but so did the flow of blood. She looked at the cut and watched the final drops drip from her body. It spread around her encircling her mutilated body in a frame of rust colored muck. Her vision began to cloud, her head was far too heavy to hold up for a moment longer.
Face down in the puddle of her own metallic tasting sorrow, she added the last of her tears to the salty pond, and saw the red no more.

I see the suffering

but I cannot feel

the pain you endure

I know it’s there

I want to

I need to

Save you

You hide it well

But it oozes through

The world can see it

but only I care

Looking out

I see the real you

If you were to as me, “Maureen, who and what do you see when you look in the mirror?” I would respond by saying I have blonde hair that i wish was longer, bad skin, crooked smile, pretty eyes, thin body, no curves, big feet, pale skin, a slight air of confidence, and a need to protect myself that comes off as rude and cold to others. I am not a beautiful girl but I am not hideous either.

Now for most people this is the case, but some are completely opposite. You have people who beleive they are the most attractive thing out there inside and out, those who think they are the most attractive thing but use if only as a cover for the lack of confidence they wish they had, people who think every little thing is absolutely horrible, some who think they are never going to be good enough, people who are indifferent, and then those who could care less. We all see ourselves in a far different light those around us see, either for the better or for the worse.

I know people who pick and pick at themselves, dissect every tiny flaw, and beat themselves down, until there is no positive emotion left. Why do we do this? Why do some feel inferior and like they could never be better than what they already are? How are we even instilled with the ideas of what is good and what is bad about looks?

I wish I was able to live as someone else for a day, I want to see what they truly think of themselves, and why they think that way. For example, the cocky kid at school, does he really think he is the best there is, or does he think he is worthless and feels the need to cover up his insecurities with a bogus mask? How about the girl who gets all the guys, does she really want them, or just their approval so she can build up the self confidence she does not have with out the reassurance of others?I wish I knew what these people go through, so I can understand them better but I know of course this cannot physically happen.

I guess what the point of this is.. I don’t really know.. nevermind.

I just wanted to put this out there I guess, to help me think.

I know that these questions will most likely never be answered for anyone but it is still fun to think about the why’s and how’s of life. I wish there was a way for us to know these things but there isn’t so I will have to be satisfied with never knowing the real truth.

Actually a topic in school made me want to write this because it is really intriguing to me. In English we talk a lot about identity, and lately I’ve been thinking a lot about it. Why am I the way I am? Why are you the way you are? Are there certain occurences that have made us who we are? Or is it all pre-programmed before birth? If you think about it we all have certain tastes in everything, books, foods, interests, talents, looks, friends, music, and more, but why, are they aquired, or do we already have these tastes?  Personally I think it is a mixture of the two. I feel like my mind directs me in a certain way and I execute it in the way I think is right.

Enough of my rambling tonight at least.

I guess I will start out by telling you who I am, and what I’m all about. Like you want to know, but hey it’s my blog page.

I’m Maureen, and I don’t think there is one person I know who shares the same views, and interests as me. Now don’t get me wrong I have friends and a great boyfriend, but living in rural Illinois, means there isn’t much culture or diversity.  So spending day after day repressed from sharing my thoughts and ideas, I’ve decided that instead of exploding, I would just spew them out randomly here.

I guess this will be kept as my public journal, kind of like those silly little pink diaries I used to write in as an elementary school girl, only a little more grown up. (and I won’t hide this one in my pajama drawer)

Well I suppose I’m out of things to say, at least for now. Yes, I know this wasn’t very deep or thought provoking but I’ve only just begun.

-Maureen