He Was, She Was

by Anna
She was a poet. In that very worn-out leather seat and a decade-old typewriter, she would write poetry and musings about her life. That very worn-out leather seat was when the first time she discovered she loved writing—most especially poems—because sometimes emotions couldn’t be expressed enough with actions but with words. It was where she found her sanity amidst all the negativities surrounding around her.

He was a mischief. He loved attracting trouble but when she found him, she knew she could change him. And she knew that she could make his life on point. He was a stray dog but he hadn’t realized it yet unless he saw people around him evolve, while him remaining the same. She would show him her poems but then he would laugh at her because who would understand those symbolic metaphors of hers? No one. Not even him.

“The rose is meant to be beautiful and prickly,” she would explain. He gave a grunt as a reply. She touched his hand and he didn’t recoil, in which she smiled. “It’s only meant to see and not to touch.”

“That’s bullcrap,” he replied. She gave him a tsk, glaring at his language. She hated writing slang language that was why poetry had become her hideout, on that very worn-out leather seat and a decade-old typewriter. She liked putting meaning behind every word, because that would make her work an art, interpretable in many ways.

But she and her poems weren’t enough to change him. Instead, he had gotten worse.

First, he brought a brown glass bottle filled with beer. He was drunkenly walking inside the room of hers where she was typing down the last stanza of her poem for her poetry contest, small sweat beads trickling down on her forehead. She badly wanted to win the competition because she was jobless in the real world, and teaching online English classes weren’t helping her because he would always ask money for booze.

She didn’t mind. She loved him and she was gradually and trying to change him in ways other women in his life couldn’t.

“You didn’t pick me up at the pub you selfish bitch,” he lashed out, almost clawing her throat, disabling her breathing.

“I’m s-sorry,” she stuttered, tears prickling in her eyes. “I was still writing an entry—“

“That’s not important,” he growled. She shivered. “I should be your first priority.”

So she stopped writing her poem that was due tomorrow, picked him at the pub at nine-thirty sharp, always letting him lie down on the very worn-out leather chair with a beer bottle on his hand. She didn’t mind. He was just astray and she was positive she could lead him to the right path.

But she did not expect he would bring cocaine to her den which was her sanctuary. He would sometimes smoke in front of her while she typed on her decade-old typewriter her endless pain around him, her eyes rimmed red not from the smoke emitted from his lips but by the tears he made her shed.

“Please leave me alone,” she croaked one time as she finished writing her poem. She would never tell him she was still writing poetry—because she loved it a lot and it had been her escape for now—even at times he was high on drugs. Sometimes he would take crystal meth on his system.

“Why would I?” he laughed. He was a mischief. And she knew he was trouble but she never listened to the warnings of her peers. “You make me happy.”

He didn’t mean it. Giving him money made him happy.

Days passed and he got worse than before. He would throw beer bottles over the white wooden table where she would type her poems on her decade-old typewriter while he smoked cocaine on her worn-out leather seat. Her den had turned into his den, and she felt naked, exposed and robbed.

Her den was like a foreign territory. She was like embarking into dangerous traps. And he was the trap.

She thought she could change him but she could never ever do it. Change should be fully realized by the person and not by anyone. He should realize that he should change for the better.

She was under in a lot of debts. She got fired from tutoring English language and her poetry was never sold out. She only had a penny on her pocket while he wasted away all of her fortune. She loved him but he never did. He used her as if she was replaceable. She knew he would grow tired of her and one day he would leave.

She would be relieved.

Shards of glass were everywhere while her worn-out leather couch was tattered and her decade-old typewriter was hanging on the wall, its keys broken.

Tears fell on her cheeks.

She was a poet. She threw the typewriter, and was aimed perfectly on his torso, making him grow limp as he smoked marijuana.

He was trouble as he lied down on the worn-out leather seat of hers, blood dripping on his body.

She was a poet and insane while she kicked and thrashed and spewed ill words at him. She cursed because she was a robbed poet, a poet whose art was touched by the hands of the undeserving. She should be a rose, beautiful yet prickly and should never be touched. He touched her in ways she disliked like emptying her pockets.

She was a poet. He was a mischief.

And on that very worn-out leather seat lied a dead body of his while on the white wooden table was a girl that was raped by her own sanity.
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