The eyes told a story, they looked tired yet fired up for a good fight. There were dark circles beneath the makeup. She didn’t look tacky, more like she was playing a role. Maybe she borrowed the clothes. Hell maybe she won the lottery and this was her first time spending on herself sans keeping track of every penny leaving her purse.
You have to show your face while they still love you. Do you want to be forgotten, to start this thing from scratch? Or what else can it be dear lovely, are you ready to throw in the towel and stop writing… give up your passion and be mundane? Do you want to be mundane Simone Nicolette?”
Those were the vivid pictures we always seemed to discuss, Dr. Sandreed and I. Of course I’m not suicidal, I am a writer. We live miniature episodes of other people’s narcissism day in and day out. I must have used up my allotment of love story episodes and moved on to darker genres. Do not scribble the word suicidal on your precious notepad dear Doctor Sandreed. It was a lovely notepad though.
I would question our whole existence
You would lean in and listen, gifted with patience
I would ask if God was real
You would simply whisper “define that word real”
Tell me what you think, tell me what you feel