humansareprudes:

“She’ll fall in love with the reader,” they said as,

I stood up and walked over to the boy with the tattered book in his tattered hands. He looked up at me because I held a thin black notebook in my right hand and a pen in the left. I watched as his blue eyes moved from a focused squint to an untroubled smile. I smiled when he asked me to sit down, to join him in his thoughts. 

 “and he will break her heart.” they finished as, 

 I opened my notebook and wrote that first sentence about him. It was

 his eyes, colored like skies when snow has yet to melt to rain. They were flanked around by inky long lashes that stuck together pointedly, like an army ready to plow through chapters of war. He had thick eyebrows that he always furrowed when the eyes beneath them were running around pages, and I later learned they would sit on his face lifelessly when his mind was not in a book. I later learned,that whenever his eyebrows sat still and thick on his face it was because his passion was lost in between 

 the lines on pages; lines I wrote became things he lusted after and the reasons he would kiss my neck in the morning, while I still slept but he was wired awake by messy scrawl on the pages of that black notebook. Lines were what drew themselves red and flaming on his eyes when he traded sleeping for reading. Lines were what burned themselves into my mind because lines were what he wrote in my head. Lines were what he loved, my lines were what he loved. He was what 

 “She loved,” they said as, 

 I wrote about lapses in judgement. Because he was a lapse in the writer’s judgement and I was the writer who made a mistake who

 “Fell in love with the reader,” they continued as,

 I pulled covers over my naked shoulders in a bed alone and screamed out poetry in desperate cries that sounded like murder. They sounded like sharp nails against a chalkboard in a classroom long after the bell rang and those screams rhymed like sick cult verses. I screamed poetry like it was candle wax on cold skin. I screamed out poetry because I remember when we were in bed together his naked skin would touch mine as if he was reading my every curve and my every bump and scar. I was the writer that 

 “fell in love with a reader, because writers always do that.” they said and

 I nodded because only writers are foolish enough to fall in love with readers, bibliophiles that pour their hearts into the lines they read and push their heads through chapters that make their eyes sting with a need for more. Writers are the only ones foolish enough to make love to a reader and think they are both making love, when one is just faking love. Writers never made love while screaming out graphic sounds but lines of poetry that stain the skin. The bibliophile will huff and puff and moan and groan in the sweaty haze of syntax and the candlelight glow of synesthesia while the writer is fooled into spitting out short bursts of rhythm and rhyme. 

 “He broke her heart, just like-” they said he would, they said he would 

 break my poor heart full of words. They said the reader would break the writer’s heart and only writers are dim enough to mix the reader’s love for their words as the reader’s love for the writer. Readers are only there for the words on the pages and the story that floats through chapters and weaves itself in plots. The bibliophile was never there with gray eyes that stared into mine and the bibliophile was never there to hold my aching hands in his tattered ones. The reader was there to furrow his eyebrows at the scrawl on those pages of mine, never there to furrow them at the one pushing a pen into those pages. 

 The writer never remembered to think with her head and not her heart, not her words. The writer thought with the words heavy in her heart beating so hard against a chest ready to burst. She never thought with the head that sat back softly shaking in fear. The writer forgot that the reader was looking to get to the climax and resolution. The reader was flying through the exposition with furrowed eyebrows and dismissive gray eyes and the writer was penning words as fast as they would come. The writer wrote and wrote until a period was placed at the end. The 

 “ending was so sad, something about,”  

 forgetting-

 

forgetting that readers are just looking to finish the book.  

narcotic:

Someone took a tab of acid in the middle of the math final. High five for public education.