Protagonist

I remember I wrote about perfect endings initially

I wrote about a love story over a radio,

and the only foul characteristic was that

the girl was a smoker.

then I wrote something about a blind man

being in love with an anorexic.

then something about a sex addict

meeting a genophobic girl

and all of them somehow fell in love

and found their fate.

these plots

they kept getting worse over the years

and I realized

I hate happy endings when I am the one responsible for them.

for how long am I supposed to anticipate an end that is not realistic

but then how do things end?

I do not know.

and then I just stopped writing stories.

all of them.

left many drafts incomplete,

except one,

that I still write till this date.

everyday it is written in my head

and if a chapter is good enough

I type it out in the dark

for the few of you to read.

the protagonist is a pain in the ass.

I love her a little too much though

a relationship has been established and

it's hard to hate someone

when they willingly exhibit their flaws

unafraid

reckless

collected and calm somehow,

this story gets out of hand sometimes

and I wonder how it will end for her.

she was made out of and for love

but that is a happy ending again so

I think it will end in a place where she

finally writes a novel of poetry like Charles Bukowski did;

bitter and real and filled with man whores

how she loves them all

but can't keep them for too long,

because everyone has this thing where they leave her

and as much as she loves the pain,

she can only afford to be hurt one last time

however she cannot decide for whom she wants to do it

because all these men are gorgeous and broken

and all of them make her write a poetry 

but this bug inside her is a bad omen to them

and they don't ever like her enough

so somewhere in this vicious cycle of

breaking down, dying away

and not letting anyone else affect her self esteem anymore,

she runs on vodka and rum

fucks their frozen souls

to squeeze out remnants of inspiration

from her now stone cold heart

types away yet another similar poetry in the dark

that she is so proud of

while charring her lungs to the nicotine she once despised

and enjoys the anxious withdrawal

left by the cheap marijuana she smokes lately

because her writing doesn't earn her enough

to buy the delightful green stuff. 

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