He knows that he wants her, and he will get her...
Emrys Lennox had it all, academic validation, wit and charm all wrapped up in a thin layer of lethal beauty. His family name provided him all the attention and spotlights he desired, and what his mo...
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Quick, quick
Tell me something awful
Like you are a poet trapped inside the body of a finance guy
Tell me all your secrets
All you'll ever be is
My eternal consolation prize
I hate it here- Taylor Swift
The old journals blink back at me, taunting me to take the first step and open them once again, to open my old wounds again and bleed on paper once again, but my hands burn vividly at the thought of doing it again, long gone was the girl who waited desperately for any spare minute, any free time to write down the thousand words swirling on blank papers, ink staining the purity of it.
"Did it ever occur to you that maybe the world needs your poetry back, Sierra?"
And there it is, his gentle, deep voice, pushing me forward into the depths of my own crisis, I had once been told that it was useless, that I only wasted my time over childish stories no one would ever read anyways, but there is a chance, a one on a million chance for my words to be seen, read, felt...
Isn't this what I've spent nights and days dreaming of ? Wasn't it my dream, my wonderland where I am allowed to go mad?
I let out a heavy exhale, sitting on my own at the living room, my head resting on my hands, my fingers gently grabbing the brown strands of my hair. Music flows through my headphones, Aitana and Sebastián Yatra's 'Corazón sin vida' soothing me down.
When I was younger, I had a clear distinction between the languages I speak, I felt in Spanish, thought in English, enjoyed things in French... Every language has it's own effect and use.
But now, now they are all mixing up in a tornado of ideas and words that are begging me to let them out...
And to my own surprise, I do exactly what they ask me to do...
The words start off as random quotes and song lyrics, messily scribbled all through the white sheet, and then they start making sense, glimpses of a paradise I lost long ago, a faraway land...
The truth is, I felt free, free to create and destroy, free to rule in my own realm of actions I control however I want.
"We are writers, we don't cry, we bleed on paper..."
So I bleed on paper, despite the fact that I was only pushed to do it to not let Emrys down, I enjoy it, every second, every hint of a wasteland .
I don't even notice the slight footsteps coming from the outside, or the woman sitting behind me on the couch. "Sierra..." Serafina's voice calls softly, and the hair on the back of my neck raises.
