writing prompt: who do you love? ♥

[ photo from visualdensity ]

When I was a teenager (though, let's be honest I'm not too far from one now), writing was my therapy.  It was my solace, my saviour; basically the only thing that kept me from freaking out & wallowing in needless self pity on a daily basis.  Something about spilling myself so openly onto the page - or onto the keys of my lap top - ignited a certain fire in me.  It made feel really truly alive & connected.  

However, the last few years I've kind of forgotten how it felt to write as a way of release.  I turned my focus towards other ventures;  Thirsty Thursdays & Margarita Nights, for example.  But now I've found myself really yearning for a kind of intimate, creative outlet.  So, I decided that once a week or so, I'll post a short writing/journal prompt on sweetheart for you - & for me, too.

We all need a place to express our true emotions - even if they are a little crazy, ridiculous, or dramatic.  We all need an outlet.  Maybe this can be yours, too?

(P.S. If you're more artistically-inclined, work this any way your little heart desires - paint, collage, Photoshop, etc.)

Today's prompt:  Write about something or someone you love, no matter how unusual.

Here's what I wrote:

i met his mother last weekend.  she was sipping milwaukees best out of a large mug & smiling smugly.  i was nervous, anxious like i always am as i slowly ran my fingers over the brochure on her kitchen table, franklinton arts district, it read.

we sat in a red booth that looked like it's been pulled straight from some 1950's soda shop.  i didn't ask how or why she had it. i already knew.  she told me her & her friend used to get high at the very same table.  last month.

he was there, too.  wandering around - shirtless like he always is - & leaving me, drumming my tiny, unpolished fingernails on the table's smooth surface, to somehow make sense of the substance-induced words flowing from his mother's mouth. 

when he finally settled into the booth next to me, she turned her attention to him.

"you really don't care about yourself, do you?" she said. i think she finally noticed the bullet wound on his side. she didn't sound sad.

"no. i let other people do it for me," he answered, firmly.

"well, it's not an easy job," she said.  i think she winked at me. i imagined that she was thinking, thank god.  thank god there's finally someone else  around to pick up the pieces of my broken family.

i was sitting there with two of the most wounded people i had ever met.

& i loved them both.

Now, sugar plums, it's your turn.  Leave me your stories - however unusual, decadent or dramatic - in the comments.