Brandy Danielle Nicholson

"Deleted?" She softly spoke to herself in confusion as she squinted her eyes. She expected something like this to happen, but hoped for more. She certainly hadn't expected to be cut off and so blatantly ignored. It had been four days since they spoke when she noticed he deleted his Facebook. The last day she saw him was like every other day with him. She awoke in his bed and promptly went to the bathroom to check her reflection. With every man, she thought the same thing, the prettier you look the better of a chance you have with him. Though this was never the case, she convinced herself that it was logical. She was gullible, especially to herself. Her hair was a bit messy, but she smiled and felt confident -she thought it made her look sexy. She opened his soft navy blue plush robe that she had slept in, and underneath she saw the woman she had become, 24 and lonely, willing to give up her emotional stability for the comfort of a man's bed. She t...

To me, this symbolizes the harmony of a perfect relationship. It's an effortless give and take of each other. A beautiful connection. This probably comes closer to describing relationship perfection than I ever could.

Do you remember back then? The days when hair and dress were priority and care was something we thought hovered over whether or not we saw each other? Do you remember the days when the end of the world was present in our lack of clothing? The days when your day could be ruined with one word or look? Do you remember when my hair made me cry? The days when boys were the reason we went anywhere or did anything? Has that changed? Do you remember feeling excitement from riding around with the windows down and the radio up in our very first junky cars? Or riding into the night with the older boys? And do you remember when that started to not be enough? Do you remember the days when our biggest worry was getting caught with a rated R movie, or authority finding out we got kicked out of Opry Mills. I felt obligated to be ashamed of those times, but the adrenaline masked it all and I was proud instead. Do you remember getting that feeling of rebellion and the simultaneous rush, and the...

Drifting and sinking into a ship of delicious objectivity, I can't contain the refrain of dripping sadness. Brazing the graze of decisions and fate to solder the happiness with the pain. Tripping through molecules of my mind, the beat repeats, and I crave sleep. Dying to be surrounded by an ocean of love, living to be surrounded by lies. Fake. Great. I'm lathered in gold and the night is bronze, sterling. They stare so deep into what I am, what seems grand, is all a sham. Now the night is blue, and I'm coated with hate. Regret. I can't seem to shake the grandeur of what you think I am, until I break. Upon a crooked pedestal rests the foot of control pushing forward to madness. I can't help but be inspired by the idea of an untrue lover's lover. She is all I thought I was, and everything I hoped to be, before I was left in uncertainty. My extremities excrete pheromones of simplicity. My insides bleed for forgiveness amongst an insane...

My heart's an intricately cracked slab of concrete delegated to the patio of your great grandmothers hundred and fifty year old house left to fall apart the day she died in the silence of her once elegant, country, Georgia home. Every chip in the concrete is symbolic of a lover that has taken a chunk of me with them. Some larger than others, respectively to the time and love I invested, hopeful it would be enough. But, it's never been enough. My eyes once a prized possession, shiny, bright, and full of youthful desire, are now worn scratched and dulled like an old knife, now neglected and pushed far to the back of that junk drawer you never open, but to search for something that was most likely found in a much more obvious place. Dark, gloomy, and lonely, my eyes rest far beyond your need for them. My breast's are beaten, used, lathered in age, longing for innocent vigor and care, like the set of double doors falling from the depreciated shed in your backyard. Aband...

A place above the colors, floating tall, there's an existence I've been told of where women never die. Their dreams last forever and life is sweet. The future bends and bows to  women at their feet. Nothing is hard, unless hard means easy, and if you're ever looking, look here and find me. 

The question of morality has seeped in to the obliterated cognitive process. A process that was once regarded, revered, respected is now annihilated by the blurry lines of right and wrong. The era of excuses and apologies has given right to commit acts of crime against a conduct of integrity. Conclusions have been drawn and dissected of ethical codes and principles of righteousness. Yet, virtue has become irrelevant. The austerity of the matter is concerning. No longer bothered by the measure of a man, but rather the means of a man's measure is the unconsciousness of society. Where is the audacity found to harbor such usage of a fellow mind likened to that of one's own, and how is it a goal for which one doesn't hesitate to seek?

A generic life is hastily made on the crust of the earth. Deep within are sins yet to be birthed and all around are minds that pine for lack of a greater surge. All the while I fall in place fantasizing of more. I'm sucked into the black hole of drones, at mercy of the event horizon's girth.