I am a writer.

Fall in love with a writer.

You’ll be preserved for forever.

Every little thing you do – the things you don’t even think about – will be written down for everyone to read. How you duck your chin into your neck when you feel shy; how your laugh sounds like little bells chiming together; how the sunlight caught your eyelashes just right that one late Sunday morning.

A writer will take the little things and show the world – and you – your beauty.

Fall in love with a writer.

They hide behind their words, but once you speak the language, my god.

You’ll be introduced into a world of emotions deeper than you could ever imagine. You’ll see right into their core, their heart, their soul. Once you speak the language, nothing is hidden.

Fall in love with a writer.

And watch them cut themeselves open to bleed for you.

Words on a page are not just words on a page. These are the deepest secrets, truths, and thoughts of your writer. This is pure blood, raw emotion. It’s overwhelming and intimidating and oh so real.

Fall in love with a writer and you’ll never be the same again.

Don’t fall in love with a writer.

Everything is a fantasy.

Even their written down version of you. It is not you, but the you they wish you could be. You will never live up to their version; you will never follow their script.

Don’t fall in love with a writer.

They’re experts at manipulating words. You’ll find yourself tangled in webs of emotions that they made you feel just with a few well chosen words and points of emphasis. There are lies and exaggerations down every hall, and a laughing writer around every corner.

Don’t fall in love with a writer.

Especially if you don’t plan on staying.

You’ll be preserved forever. In between the pages of their book. Everyone will know it’s you because writers don’t forget, and writers like chaos.

Fall in love with a writer and you’ll never be the same again.

I am a writer.

I mince words. I am a fan of manipulation.

I tell lies.

I will make you feel things.

I will make you hate me and yourself.

I create your wildest fantasies and can tear them all down with a few lines.

I am a writer.

I will love you more than anyone else.

I will bleed.

I will hide my feelings in subtext. I will show everyone you’re beautiful.

I will notice the things no one else does and will treasure them for always.

I will make you love yourself and me.

I am a writer.

Fear me.

Love me.

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Wonder

I wonder if anyone thinks about me; I wonder who thinks about me.

I wonder who thinks about me slinging a leg over their hips, pressing down, hands flat against their chest, my hair falling over bare shoulders.

Do they think I’m loud? Head thrown back, cries and moans falling out of my open mouth?

Do they think I’m quiet? Breaths and gasps whispering past my lips?

(I don’t know who wonders, but I know who’s right.)

Do they picture me like that? Raw and exposed? Soft and wanting?

Do they picture me like this? Fiery and demanding. Fucking in charge.

What do they think about? When they hear my name, my voice? When they see my lips, my eyes (my shoulders that I constantly bare)?

I wonder who thinks about me?

Do you wonder about me?

Like I do you?

 

Red Sands

My feet sink into the red sand beneath me. I’m watching the tide go out. Slowly – pulling the red along with it.

I want to go with the red sand. I want to go with the ocean.

I’ve never stood here before.

The waves are still rocking past my ankles. Running towards me, a teasing splash, a little further, and then a small tug as they retreat back to the sea.

I close my eyes and just listen.

Splsssh, splssh, splssh.

I want to follow the red sand so badly that I imagine the waves tugging at my ankles.

Another tug.

It feels like the ocean has wrapped its fingers around my ankles – whispering for me to join them.

I look down and can no longer see the red sand. My feet are buried under seaweed that has wrapped itself around me.

The ocean’s fingers.

Another tug.

I take a step forward as the waves move further down the shore.

Every time the waves reach my ankles, more seaweed joins in the pull.

Water running, splash up, cold grab, sharp tug, and a step forward.

Whoosh, up, grab, tug, forward.

Up, grab, tug, forward.

Up, tug, deeper.

The waves are bouncing along my neck now.

I’m splashed in the face – up.

The seaweed wraps around my hips – grab.

Join us – a whisper.

The rush of water filling my ears, my nose, every pore on my body – tug.

I can’t see the red sand anymore.

Deeper.

Good Enough

He was a heavy weight on her heart. His sweaty chest pressed against hers, pushing her into the mattress below.

She was trapped.

She rubbed her hands up and down his back, willing him to roll over.

He should know by now. She didn’t like him crowding her. She needed her space afterwards. She needed room to breath.

He sighed and rolled onto his back.

She missed his heat.

Was she really ready to let that go?

“No.”

He raised an eyebrow at her.

“Come back.” She commanded to the ceiling.

He rolled back into her, pressing kisses along her neck. She closed her eyes and let herself melt into the touch.

This – this was fine.

Good even.

He cared about her, more than she cared about him, but the love was still there.

Her thumb rubbed against her ring finger; a nervous habit she had for years, but now it glided along her new engagement ring.

She wasn’t nervous about being a bride. She’d been waiting for it for years! She planned on getting married at 25. It’s not her fault that he didn’t show up until 27.

She looked down at him snuggling against her neck.

He’d be fine right? He could be the one?

“Mmmh,” he hummed, “How was it?”

She could be happy.

She could have someone who loved her. Someone who was passionate. Someone who showed her respect. Someone who didn’t ask too many questions when her eyes wandered.

Someone who was perfect (just not for her).

She could have love. She could have a husband.

She met his eyes for the first time that night and smirked.

“Good enough.”

Kai.

I reach out and brush up against her bare legs.

Kai, I call out.

She freezes and looks around, but she doesn’t look down, so I reach up and brush against her again.

Kai.

The sun bounces off my skin. She brings a hand up to shield her eyes. Her toes squeeze in the sand.

Come to me, Kai.

I pull away and watch her look around again before taking a deep breath.

She dives into my skirts. The cool silks billow and ripple away from her. I scoop her up in my arms and carry her towards me.

Why am I here? She wonders.

Hush, my child. I smooth back her hair, whisper love in her ears, and guide her away from shore.

She’s breathless. I can see her struggling to hold on.

I lift her up; breathe, Kai.

She fills her lungs up then returns to my embrace. Her eyes open wide for the first time since she dived in. I spin her around and laugh at the wonder behind her eyes.

Welcome home.

What’s in a name?

What does it mean to be worthy of a name?

I was supposed to do great things – that’s what she kept telling me.

“Nathan Nightingale. We’re saving you for something special.”

The first half of my life was spent listening to her coo over me. She would protect me from her world; keeping me out of sight, but always within her reach.

“You’ll do great things,” she told me, “I’m just not sure what yet.”

The second half of my life was spent trying to figure out what it was that I could do.

She didn’t want me to break hearts because “that’s what they all do, dear.” I was supposed to be better than that.

“You’re Nathan Nightingale. You are merely too important to break hearts.”

I was too proper to go into space. I was too pretty to go to war. I was too perfect to be just another high school anti-hero.

I lingered in the dark corner she had long since placed me in. She’d forget about me for months on end before tripping over herself screaming my name.

It always came back to my name.

“I could be a prince,” I suggested. She sat at her desk, looking in my direction but seeming to be staring right through me.

“No… a prince is expected. And besides, I’m no regal advisor.”

I didn’t have a path in life. We could never find one, and with each new failure, I would retreat back into my dark corner with my head and self-esteem lower than the time before.

“They always tell you the name is the most important part, Nathan Nightingale, but they never tell you how to plan the rest.”

She never asked what I wanted to be. She never let me tell my own story. I was always there. Always listening to what script she would lay out for me, only to rip it away again.

“This is no story for Nathan Nightingale!”

I’m not sure what I would say if she asked me what I wanted to be (another thing she wants me to say). I have never been more than just a name.

Just a boy with an amazing, grand, royal, perfect name and no way to live up to it.