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Literature Text
Today, she doesn't think she'll bother lying to herself.
She's fucking terrified. She doesn't know who she is or why she so desperately needs to know who she is. Sure, she puts on a tough face- little bird with clipped wings, trying to fly and hiding the evidence of any past falls. But she's weak, like a hardboiled egg not cooked long enough. Soft, her center is a half cooked yolk, and all you need to do is crack her shell.
--
She looks back in the mirror. Maybe if she were just a bit thinner (she looks past the dark hollows and protruding cheekbones), her skin just a bit clearer, her words sweeter and paintings better, she could smile without it hurting her chest. It pains her to lie to the whole world, but at night she can see dark circles and blackheads, small scars and freckles, the eye bags that have caught her smudged eyeliner, frizzy hair, stubbornly fluffy and tangled, and feels as if she's been absolved for the terrible crime of lying by omission.
--
But you can't be punished or executed for what hasn't been proven. Or at least she thinks so. She's a bit naïve, hidden behind her own wall. Oh well. What she doesn't know won't hurt her until it sneaks up behind her at sunset, claws digging into her virgin throat. That's how she sleeps at night, fingers tangled in her fingers, nothing but glass beads and string that cannot help her escape her prison.
--
It's the looking forward. That's what scares her shitless- it isn't her drunkard father's heavy hand on her face or mommy's nails digging into her scalp. Even their razor wire words that whip her bloody don't scare her as much as her mother stumbling through the front door wasted. Perhaps because she knows that that could be her, ten years from now. Or maybe she'll be rotting in a landfill- she doesn't know and it scares her. But now, she pushes the broken glasses up the bruised bridge of her nose and sighs. Breathe in breathe out breathe in breathe out, repeat.
--
Living with them was a lot like learning to swim. As long as she set her eyes in front and ignored everything, kept her eyes on the prize and got out of the water quick, she could do it. But hiding bruises you couldn't see was a lot harder than concealing the blue-black marks on her arms. Those would fade a week past Thursday. The others scarred and became the reason that she would come to know the feel of cold metal against her arms and concrete under her back, the reason she would come to stand at a street curb, 3 AM in the morning, three cigarettes left and no more beer. Mommy's miniature.
--
She was pretty much screwed already (pardon the pun, if you will), but even a city pigeon could dream.
She's fucking terrified. She doesn't know who she is or why she so desperately needs to know who she is. Sure, she puts on a tough face- little bird with clipped wings, trying to fly and hiding the evidence of any past falls. But she's weak, like a hardboiled egg not cooked long enough. Soft, her center is a half cooked yolk, and all you need to do is crack her shell.
--
She looks back in the mirror. Maybe if she were just a bit thinner (she looks past the dark hollows and protruding cheekbones), her skin just a bit clearer, her words sweeter and paintings better, she could smile without it hurting her chest. It pains her to lie to the whole world, but at night she can see dark circles and blackheads, small scars and freckles, the eye bags that have caught her smudged eyeliner, frizzy hair, stubbornly fluffy and tangled, and feels as if she's been absolved for the terrible crime of lying by omission.
--
But you can't be punished or executed for what hasn't been proven. Or at least she thinks so. She's a bit naïve, hidden behind her own wall. Oh well. What she doesn't know won't hurt her until it sneaks up behind her at sunset, claws digging into her virgin throat. That's how she sleeps at night, fingers tangled in her fingers, nothing but glass beads and string that cannot help her escape her prison.
--
It's the looking forward. That's what scares her shitless- it isn't her drunkard father's heavy hand on her face or mommy's nails digging into her scalp. Even their razor wire words that whip her bloody don't scare her as much as her mother stumbling through the front door wasted. Perhaps because she knows that that could be her, ten years from now. Or maybe she'll be rotting in a landfill- she doesn't know and it scares her. But now, she pushes the broken glasses up the bruised bridge of her nose and sighs. Breathe in breathe out breathe in breathe out, repeat.
--
Living with them was a lot like learning to swim. As long as she set her eyes in front and ignored everything, kept her eyes on the prize and got out of the water quick, she could do it. But hiding bruises you couldn't see was a lot harder than concealing the blue-black marks on her arms. Those would fade a week past Thursday. The others scarred and became the reason that she would come to know the feel of cold metal against her arms and concrete under her back, the reason she would come to stand at a street curb, 3 AM in the morning, three cigarettes left and no more beer. Mommy's miniature.
--
She was pretty much screwed already (pardon the pun, if you will), but even a city pigeon could dream.
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This is beauty, right here.