Written for my writing class.

Prompt: Write about a man who has murdered someone. Don't mention the murder.


You look so much in turmoil, so much unlike me. Your face is swarming with rifts and lumps. Discoloration makes your skin an unappealing mix of the shades green, brown, and blue. I fear cupping you in my hands for I will only add another color to your already ugly blend of hues. There is nothing beautiful about you.

I feel oddly at ease while it appears you seem to feel just the opposite about my presence. Fear not. It's not like I'm going to kill you or anything. Silly!

"I wish you wanted me here. It feels like nobody ever wants me around."

That animosity is what makes you change and alter yourself for the greater good, is what you're thinking, right?

"Who will I become after all the choices I've made and yet to make? Actions I've taken and yet to take? Who was I before I did what I've done? Who did I become after each battle I won?"

And now you get to hear my awful attempt at some provocative poetry.

You're upset again. Understandable. The clouds are, too, you know. They seem to be on my side, where you aren't, but that's not what they're upset about. Jeez, you're in a bitchy mood today, aren't you? I wonder why. Cheer up, love. It will all be okay in the long run.

Pinky promise? you seem to ask.

"Yes, pinky promise."

I hold up my pinky for good measure and your waves seem to roll more quickly now as the wind picks up, almost as if it's trying to make you raise a pinky of dirty liquid to me to actually seal the promise.

Please don't bother, love. I don't want you touching me. Admit it, you're not exactly the cleanest lake around.

You're upset again. Understandable.