A boy and a girl- that’s all we truly were. What else could we be? We were 14. I couldn’t pinpoint exactly when I knew, but probably when I was 14 and you agreed with everything I said.
But 14?
Maybe I thought I was destined to have you. It sounds immature, but how did we get sat together two years in a row?
Maybe it was my best friend mentioning how much you stared at me. She wouldn’t have lied to me, even when you paid her the same attention.
But this was all so long ago; two years is so very long.
I can’t say I ever loved you. That’s wrong- not when you have a girlfriend that you love. Not when my heart dropped when I found out, but that’s irrelevant.
And now we’re 16 and you got so close, so very close, and I could feel your breath on my cheek and your arm against mine as you leaned in.
And now I’m remembering how you went out of your way to walk with me in the halls between classes.
Maybe it was the brown eyes I lost myself in. It wasn’t yours I loved first, but perhaps the most.
And is it even adequate to call that love?
Your eyes that made me feel like the only girl in the room; such beautiful dark eyes.
Maybe it was your hair that fell so perfectly over your neck, just the same as the color of your eyes. The hair I have to watch from behind now- but that’s for the best.
All this is- deep, deep down- is fourteen year old me hoping I had even the slightest chance with you. I haven’t evolved in two years, only grown up.
I could not love you. Someday, possibly. But you love someone else, and if you flirt with me now you’ll flirt with her then. It’s my fault for thinking I could have been her.
“I know I could have loved you, but you wouldn’t let me.”
And I’ll never forget the sound of a boy who pretends he loves me.
A star-spangled cowgirl The true Western icon With ruddy hair and a tanned complexion
But nothing to the prince A man of culture, Sheltered culture
Paths a-crossing ‘Twas dawn of the third morn That the prince were in the West
Of a tumbleweed daylight And sweet sappy freedom, A contrast to the austerity of royalty
But when spoken upon One and the other Were realized such a similarity
Life, it seemed Were but a paradoxical privilege Though just out of reach
Freedom tasted sweet But achievement was tauntingly rare Under the Eastern Sun
But for both, As found, A precious relief
An addictive goal That could never be reached Power and independence
One and the same The prince and a cowgirl, Inhibited
Happiness never felt forced until you held it in front of my face Hovering by my mouth, thinking you were tempting me Hopeful that my self-deprecation would be to the benefit of your pride
Holding my ego in the palm of your hand Hunger didn’t become starvation until I saw the light that could’ve been more Heaven forbid you let me see what you see in me
Hunting for my goodness, you overlooked my broken soul Honey, you can’t have one without the other Hearts don’t break until you handle them wrong
Here I stand, but I want to fall Harder and harder you push me so that I may not grow taller than you
Help
She gripped the ancient relic tightly, feeling the power running through it with a pulsating false joy that emulated a heavy dose of illegal narcotics.
She, Isabella Turner, took a long drag at her cigarette and sighed out a puff of smoke. A mourning dove was somewhere nearby; its consistent cooing was unsettlingly rhythmic and low.
Isabella turned the object over in her hands, gazing at the dark amethyst crystal embedded in gold. It hurt to look away, but less than it hurt to watch.
Memories of him surfaced like driftwood when looking at the relic- how deeply he cared for her, his dark blue eyes, his kind personality that ended up getting him killed.
Isabella sniffed as her eyes threatened to spill and glanced at the sky.
She could have him back.
All those days they never had would have a reason; all the times she woke up with an image of him next to her would be gone.
The mourning dove wouldn’t shut up.
Insistent cooing filled Isabella’s ear so much that she almost forgot the sound of his voice resurfacing.
She held the relic tighter; it started to feel like his messy hair the longer she ran her fingers over it.
Isabella twisted the spherical object so that the amethyst lined up with the cryptic runes. She started to feel weepy and heavy-headed. Bile crept up the back of her throat and threatened to escape with an aching sob.
“I see you, Isa.”
She startled and tried to look around, but her vision was blacking at the edges. She couldn’t tell if she was standing, or laying on the ground, or floating above it.
“Come home, Isa.”
She couldn’t feel anything, not the relic, or her limbs, or his hair. She was numb, tingly.
She felt like she had to throw up, but nothing would come. She was dry heaving, warm tears stinging down her cheeks while his cooing voice echoed around her hollow mind.
It seemed never-ending, until it did end.
And it was sudden, sharp, painless.
He was there, but they weren’t there. He was holding her head in his hands, stroking tears off her cheek, they weren’t really there.
They weren’t really there.
But they held each other in such a way that it felt real. It felt true, to Isabella.
Isabella Turner and her narcotics sighed, but not really. The only thing that really was there was the dark purple behind Isabella’s eyelids, but even that was gone.
He was gone.
She was gone.
But they were gone together.
The days end up going soft around the corners A little blurry Or maybe that’s my vision going bad Because I spend too much time Staring at the sun
Though the sun is needed To grow, survive, breathe The shadows are trying to encroach But the sun is always there
It rises with a blur in the mornings now And I can’t really tell, but the moon seems reluctant And the sun seems hesitant And the nighttime bleeds into the day until you can’t tell which is which
Time is mushy; what is what is hard to determine Astronomers and astrologers alike Neither can say Everything is too soft
And the world’s corners seep into the patterns of the galaxy Blacks and blues all become soft But is soft really the right word?
The people don’t know and it makes them restless Looking for a solution that only leads to more problems Eventually you can’t tell which is which Problem, solution Are all the same They’ve gone soft, the people and their ideas
Or maybe that’s my vision going bad Maybe the people mean well But my sunburnt eyes interpret it differently Maybe different isn’t okay I can’t tell anymore
I’ve gone too soft
The days we thought were young Were really just all too short And the nights we thought were high Were just a dream we spun and wove more skillfully than our love
You held me more gently than the others And everything about it was softly sorrowful Your breath against my neck, like a feather Your pain was slow and careful, nothing about it you dared spread to me
In the delicate gloom of your cigarette smoke And the flickering light of the dimming candle You told me you loved me And I trusted you Leaning into your muted torment Like it was a bed of clouds for the queen you treated me like
And the days we thought were young Were just the wintry mix of depression and drowning The nights we thought were high were just your weak coping skills eating you alive
Softly, gently now I held you because you felt like you were falling But you just took me down with you And the fires stopped burning just before we hit the ground We were surrounded by smoke but unable to choke
Time was like a ticking time bomb But the ticks were too soft to hear And we didn’t make it out alive
Tears littered the ground where you laid in the dust And my hope was left where you found me I think it rusted before we found daylight
Too soft now I wasn’t enough for your heartache But you kept me as long as guaranteed
You broke me but I’m too soft to mend So I weep while you reach past Towards your own security
And wish for something firmer to hold onto Because you let me slip
When I was trying to save you
She’s not who she says she is She’s made of lust and foul words on the outside But they cut deeper than she can feel Deep down, they dig in like a knife Twisting inside so your guts may become infected with dirt But she doesn’t feel it
She thinks she’s pure Repent, repent, repent She doesn’t see She’s taking it for granted And the knife won’t budge Because it’s in too deep now Lust and swearing She thinks she’s clean because she asks forgiveness
She thinks she’s clean But there’s an ache deep inside Where the knife used to be But it’s dissolved by now And it’s starting to rust in her core Fire in her stomach burns forever Never ending, though she doesn’t even see
It’s so bright, but she is blind And she thinks it’s okay
Someone will see her for who she is “She’s not who she says she is” He was sent from above but it turns sour
She needs surgery But you can’t remove something intangible She’s the one that can’t be saved That’s what she thinks And she gives up
She falls into the pit of lust It’s shallow but slippery There’s only one way out And she can’t see it
She’s too blind by the vision of who she thinks she is
My childhood dreams were something like a nightmare I was stuck in the endless loop of nothingness And meaningless Taking care of the people That were supposed to be taking care of me Beer bottles and sweaty must Sticky fingers and microwaved macaroni and cheese Growing up before I had a chance to live
So my dreams were feverish I desired singularity and peace at heart But knew it would only come At the age of adulthood Though it seemed like adulthood Was nothing more than everyday life Like a clock that comes back around and around and around every twelve hours As though the last twelve never happened
I didn’t dream of a career It was impossible when I saw that careers would only land you on a couch Laid off No money, no dreams Dreams were far off and impossible My fingertips were stretched too thin Reaching for something that wasn’t there
I used to think dreams couldn’t come true But it comes soft like romantic realness And purity in a heart You can’t fake the reality that became a dream from a broken childhood Until it falls as fast as it arrived Careers that landed me on the couch Laid off No money, no dreams This was the dream you forgot moments after waking up Because you realized all too fast how utterly unreal it was Just a dream From a broken childhood
A broken childhood can be healed But this one wasn’t I landed on the couch And the cycle continued Like a second hand going around every sixty ticks As though the last sixty never happened
The next book that comes in has a cover. Most books do. There’s a girl on the front. Her hair is long and shiny, red.
I scan it back into circulation. Beep.
I run a hand over my peach-fuzzy head, shorn and heavily tattooed underneath.
I think of my step father, dragging me across the asphalt of our driveway by my hair.
The book after that has a star on the cover. A black background, a shining white star.
I scan it back into circulation. Beep.
I think of my hardened heart and closed-off mind. I wish I could’ve been happier, but that’s not how I was raised.
I wasn’t raised; I was left to myself. One lonely star.
Someone comes to the counter. I don’t know him. He looks happy. A little boy is down beside him, clinging to his jeans.
“How’s it going?”
Normal formalities that seemed mundane and unnecessary. I shrugged and took the three picture books the little boy picked out. He smiled up at me, showing a dark gap where his two front teeth should have been.
“Hi!” He giggled. “I like your hair.”
I scanned the book. Beep.
Out of circulation.
He’s losing circulation now. Somehow. Someway. Not exactly sure. My mind is blank but full all at once.
I think of my own father, a missing piece of my life that made the puzzle incomplete.
His eyes rolled back and shut. I didn’t have to shut them.
I think of my step father, six feet under.
I took off my name badge, “Andrea.” I set it on the counter.
I left, like my family left me. Like I forced them to leave. Like I forced him to leave.
It was nothing new, but newly frightening all the same.
I loved it, and I hated it.
It was me.