When she was three years old, maybe four, she acquired this habit of running the tip of her tongue behind her teeth whenever she smiled. She vividly remembers leaning across her sink, the faucet digging into her stomach, her toes pointed, to stare at her smile in the mirror. With clenched teeth, she grinned widely and contorted her tongue behind her ivory fence, loving the secret of it.
and arrange it all before me, I find, like far too many of us, that I have nothing but crumpled newspapers, chocolate smeared metallic foil, and half-written cliches . Derivative, messy, and unoriginal. Like someone caught in traffic, my thoughts are completely average in their insistence that they are special, an individual.
She cried and cried, because of the love in her heart for a boy that she knew wouldn’t fade. But she was lost somewhere out at sea on her rock surrounded by mermaids, and he was somewhere grounded to the coast. Maybe, one day, she will brave the tides and swim back to shore, but doing so would mean forever, and she fears, above all, the boy’s inability to believe.
a dancer, a really great dancer, and a theater major. He dresses, and sort of looks like Justin Bieber, but maybe there could be something.
To be honest he wasn’t attractive at all. There was nothing revolting or hideous about his face, and his build was pretty average, perhaps a little large. Looking at his face felt akin to staring at a pair of black shoelaces. No matter what, no matter how you look, shoelaces are never beautiful.
Despite his lack of physical beauty, she felt extremely attracted to him. She watched him rest his chin on his guitar as he sang, his back hunched, and his arms cradling. Beautiful, she thought. Beautiful.
He seemed like the type of person who would just “get’ it, get her. You know? He’d understand the fading lines on her wrist, and he’d understand that sometimes she had rotting thoughts that did not feel like her own. He’d understand.
this is the kind of song I’d slit my wrists to in a lukewarm bathtub. Poor guy, although he’d never find out, maybe somehow he’d know that I listened to his song as the water chilled to an uncomfortable temperature that I no longer had the strength to fix.
Funny, he thought, that was one of the saddest stories he ever thought of.
Funny, I thought, how strange it is that I just find these “ideas,” that rarely feel like my own, floating in my head. And funny how I always have to write them out.
I don’t feel the distance. One minute I was there and now I’m here. I can’t seem to comprehend the miles in between.
I don’t want to grow old, grow up, and realize that we made a mistake. I’m still young, and I still take love for granted. I still think that connections, true connections happen all the time. I think that what we have, had, is nothing too special. Of course it’s special, but I’ll feel it with other people, I will, right? But the more I read, and the older I get, the more worried I become that perhaps, perhaps true love as I perceive it, is far too rare to give up like this.
Each raindrop evaporates almost instantly on contact with the hot asphalt, making my skin feel like a half eaten cherry lollipop left under a carseat. And the sun is bright behind light gray clouds, so convincingly opaque, that had I been born that day, I would have believed that the sky was off white. And, although I’m sitting within an aluminum box, I can hear the tires around me displacing little pebbles with damp fermatas above their notes just begging to be memorable. That’s what it feels like—fleeting, warm, and on the whole, completely unsubstantial.