fiction fridays, part six.

original photo

006. an autobiography.
i cannot write cohesively about myself

to save

my life.

i think i write too conventionally;
starting at the beginning and ending at
the end, 
but never in the middle where
everything unfolds.
i like to think i’m an open person, pliable
with a little bit of coaxing. sweet and
to the point, like 
a maraschino cherry.

and yet, like an 

artichoke,

i too have a pit of secrets that 

i unveil like

a disintegrating fog before

closing off again.

(i hate to be

caught in the

spider web of

my vulnerability.)

but when it comes to happy things (see?),

i blush when i’m excited (though my

skin is a rendition of caramel) and

i rebelliously sway my hips during the

cupid shuffle and 

my hobbies include watching cream

flirt with coffee. eyes that are

set ablaze in the morning are

smothered

with the embers of dusk.

i wish to

kiss

my future lover the way starlight composes

the sky:

the innermost city - barely there;

the suburbs - scattered and delicate;

the country - a passionate swell of illumination.

but until 

then, i write from

the middle,

because i’ve already started

at

the

beginning.

finally really getting into writing again. feels good.
-kiss kiss kiss, affirmative-