Free Write – April 2012

Prompt – These are the things that make me Me

The biting sarcasm, the incessant inner monologue, the grammar nazi who can’t spell neccessary. The constant urge to headbutt, the pages upon pages of bookshelves filled with pages upon pages of blank paper I’ve collected – journals, notebooks, all collected for the opus I know in my heart I will write next. The regular thoughts of the perfect scar on the brow of the man who settles warm into my dreams. The preparations for zombie apocalypse. The knowledge of how to use any object, any word, as a weapon, and the way it felt to hold my manuscript in my hands for the first time.

Don’t touch my face. Never touch my face. Unless it be the caress of my lover or the graze of my daughter’s arms as she wraps them around my neck, the space about my face is as sacred as an Albino in Kenya. A girl once crossed into the airspace of my face, hovering there like a helicopter of hubris, taunting with her presence. She had decided I was intimidating and as revolution, wanted to conquer her fears in a manner most foul.

Two fingers. Doesn’t sound like much, but press them against a forehead and push, you have a truly obnoxious act on your hands. My head tilted back with the force, startled by the completely unprovoked act of a perfect stranger.

“Dude, don’t do that,” I said.

She smiled.

Two fingers. Pressed flat against the forehead, pushed harder this time. My head tilted back as my friends muttered and fretted in what I would later learn to be fear of how I might react. How did they know?

“Please don’t do that again.”

Words polite, tone of warning.

Two fingers.

“I swear if you touch me one more time -“

Two fingers. Grazed across my forehead as I moved. I grabbed her by the shoulders and threw her off the bleachers, her slight frame falling nine feet toward the empty field.


Don’t touch my fucking face.


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