What French?

This one had an Audi, the other one had unpaid bills but a lot of wild weekends, the one before him sat beside her in class, there’s also the one who lectured them every Friday morning. She had a long list of them. This darling was a sucker for love. She believed more than anything that one day she’d find her prince charming. One who’d see through her flaws and love her all the same. One she could perhaps teach how to love.

But today, she sat on the edge of her bed. Pills in one hand and her phone in the other. The tears, they were black from the mascara. The bitterness, it was almost palpable. She remembered the one who wrote her a song and down her cheek ran a warm drop. The one who bought her a camera and down her other cheek ran another warm drop. The one who took her to Zanzibar for her 20th birthday and she let out a sharp scream. The memories were poisonous. Pure pain.

Behind the locked door, she chugged the glassful of gin and felt the pills, the poison settle in her empty stomach.

 

Stop!

 

Shouted her conscience but too late.

 
She had happy thoughts of being reincarnated as a fish in her after life. She smiled and closed her eyes. She lay there waiting for the pain, the profuse sweating, the writhing and tossing. They found her cold body the next morning.

Look at her silky skin, her perfect smile, her inviting eyes but still she succumbed to the cruelty that is lying men. Cheating bastards! (What French) She had so easily let the grim reaper take her young self. Ripping her own heart out.

 

For love

 

They had said as they sang hymns paying their last respects.

Hmmm  Love? I know it’s not for love. I know this because I’m the fish in her after life. I wander the sea with recollections of the previous life. I’m happier now though. I swim to the shore every evening and watch lovers sit by the beach. I swim back after dark and find the same he lover on a yacht with another she lover. And I wish I had been braver. Brave enough to let my heart break enough times to not feel anymore. Maybe I would still be human. Walking the streets in short shorts and slapping the hell out of any man who gave me bullshit (What French). I would be tough. I wouldn’t die for love.

I am not suicidal. I just have a lot of time on my hands. Love and love.

 

Feature Image: Mukiri Gitiri

 

Moreen Wachira on BEENMUSED

 

IMG-20160224-WA0006

I am inspired by everyday life and nothing brings me more joy than sharing my thoughts in written words. The ability to express truths and create imaginations becomes my everyday fuel. Enjoy as you share in this beautiful journey with me – Moreen Wachira.

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Author: Dennis Peters

When I stare at an empty word document, which is often, my font is always Georgia, size 10, and the feeling constantly is that the cursor is mocking me.

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