Breadcrumbs
I'm not holding out for a hero
I'm living off of hope that someone will still save me. I follow the breadcrumbs as if they were specifically meant for me. If you want me, you know where to find me. I'm praying you will come to me as if it were your destiny. I'm that desperate to take anything you give. Self-sabotage breeds toxicity and it needs one more life to live. I'm not going to roll the dice and pin all my hopes on if. If you want me, you'll have to jump over this rift. This nagging feeling keeps telling me don't get your hopes up. Why do I never feel like I am good enough? You're still so vulnerable and looking for validation. You can't keep pretending you're not praying this time that he's the one. You're not perfect but I have my fingers crossed. I want you to reassure me and love me with all of my flaws. I want to mold myself into the shape of your desire. Why wouldn't I want to damage myself in the heat of this fire? Maybe I should have waited until I was fully healed. I didn't want to lose this opportunity and have my fate sealed. I'm scared of the future and I have so much riding on this experience and connection. I don't have the strength to keep trying in hopes I'll eventually forget and move on. I might never believe in myself and be the confident one. I'll always want you to choose me instead of another one. My salvation lies in your choice to love me and only me. I'm already planning on choosing you because that's the only way I'll be free. I can't fake passivity nor can I fake apathy. I can't be indifferent because my heart always takes that leap before me. Loving being in love is a curse I have given myself. Finding that forever is all I want above everything else. The false sense of perfection drives me up the wall. Wishing I was what you want is the goal above all. Acceptance of me and my insecurities will be a dream come true. I might never be able to do it so I only hope it's you. My anxiety feels like I want so little and so much. I can't risk rejection again because I still believe in love. Maybe that's what this path is: me learning to love and accept myself one day. I can only cross my fingers and hope I'll see smiling you back at me on that one fateful day
About the Creator
Anna Torres
I’m a 37-year old mother. I love reading, metal music, and writing. I have begun writing again since 2021
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Peanuts and Crackerjack
Bottom of the ninth inning. The game is tied with two outs, two strikes and a man on second. I tap the bat on home plate. The rigid vibrations it creates reminds my aching digits that this isn't over. The practice swing only adds to the heft of mental burnout... Man on second, willing to chance it. Pitcher eyes him but doesn't give in to the dangerous bluff. I kick up dust, readying the peculiar stance I've had since the days of little league. The bat lays stiff upon my cramping shoulder. Pain has no reason to be acknowledged; it's a fleeting afterthought. The sun sits passed high noon, but the stadium lights are on anyway. They trick my brain into believing they are the cause of this sweltering heat. Sporadic clouds are motionless, they too, don't want to miss this exhilarating predicament. Anticipating the next pitch, intensifying roars from the crowd rumble the stadium... Behind me, the crafty catcher adjusts his stance and spits to the dry dirt. Behind him, the staunch umpire doesn't flinch or even blink; he knows how important his call will be. The pitcher winds up, his grip tells me its gonna curve. The release is fierce! Beads of sweat from his hair and face disperse in every direction as the force of his might is unfailing. My left leg lifts—an instinctual move that will increase the power of my swing. It's all down to my two, bloodshot eyes. They lock onto the speeding, white dot as it instantly becomes the target I intend to destroy. The swing is late, but I manage a solid tip. The ball is taking a fast bounce toward the pitcher who is recovering from the almighty throw! Man on second leaves in a desperate rush! I fling the bat to the side with a sense of urgency and make a mad sprint to the only destination I have—first base. Three defenders race inward to be the first to retrieve the skidding ball. Man is almost on third! I watch the open glove of my adversary, wondering if I’ve done enough to win this race. I switch my attention to his eyes, looking for a clue, some kind of reaction that tells me the ball is in the air and heading his way. All I see is frustration. The deafening roar of the crowd spikes! Something happens that I can’t see! My opponent abandons his post right as my left stride touches the bag. I waste no time turning my head to see the pitcher laying on his stomach, pounding the mound with an open glove. He misses the opportunity to out me and the ball has quickly bounced past him. Excitement grows! This isn’t over yet... It's become an imperative fight to tag out the runner heading homeward. The catcher falls to his knees in obvious despair as he watches my teammate make the run of his life. He knows it’s going to be close when he sees the shortstop fumble the ball a second too long. I jump up and down with no plans on leaving first base. All my chips are on the speed and agility of the active runner. His cleats dig into the dirt, trailing a dust-filled cyclone from the rapid and strenuous strides. With a thrusting dive and an outstretched arm, he lands on his chest to begin the crucial slide to home plate. The shortstop fires the ball to the catcher! It immediately begins closing the gap! Nail-biting doesn't begin to describe the anxious vibe permeating the stadium. The bench begins to celebrate even before he reaches the plate. Forty thousand cheering fans reach maximum crescendo, filling the air with a glorious sound. Everyone knows how this story will end… My teammate is met by the entire bench as his fingers inch across home plate, instantly followed by the unmistakable motion of the catcher's glove attempting to tag him out—its milliseconds too late. The ump swings his arms outward, officially calling him safe.
By Lamar Wiggins3 days ago in Fiction
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