#191

not yet inured to the callousness of Western journalism, she cringed at the news report.

a young girl, a deadly car crash. "tragic accident" flashed on the screen, punctuated by pictures of a lithe blond in a denim miniskirt. "...kills teen" and then her visage, smiling.

the newscaster, with feigned emotion and an aptly placed touch on the mother's arm, repeated phrases like "what a horrible thing to happen to such a beautiful girl" and "sad story and such a pretty little thing", as if that mattered, then or now. as if beauty were somehow a justification for life. would anyone care if she were ugly?

what would the teleprompter read if she had bad hair and crooked, toothy smile, but had a beautiful and quiet heart?

she looked in the mirror and prayed that she wouldn't die young. the only thing worse than that, would be to have it go unnoticed.

sixtythree

This damn pen is out of ink but I don't care because I can still write what I wanted and the words bleed through the paper just like blood would and you'll take another piece of paper and scratch across it with a pencil like you did when you were young and made pictures of leaves or the soles of your shoe. And you'll know everything.

sixtytwo

My suitcase carries souvenirs from everyone and everywhere, and the zippers are near bursting, and I never want to go back. The pictures I took with the messages on the back and the reminders on the back and the photo paper stuck back to back; all I see is an amateur record of architecture, invasive lighting, and half-closed eyes, and I never want to go back.

#190

when i heard that i am from mars and you are from venus, it made sense, because you've always felt so distant. plus, i know you're with me because i'm hotter than all the others. and you seem like a less hospitable version of someone else.
it's okay, darlin. let's keep circling our issues. if we get to close, we might just go up in flames.

#189

as she wrote, the pen pressed awkwardly against her palm. that's what no opposable thumb will do for penmanship. "...people are more willing to ask about my physical scars than about you leaving, but i think this is easier without you..."
she appended the letter with a quote rather than her signature, cursive only vaguely reminiscent of her past old-fashioned swirling m's and slanted t's.

#188

she handed him a picture. in his hands it felt small and cheap. "i wrote on the back of it!" she chirped and skipped away, clutching a purple hello kitty zipper pouch holding the rest of her wallet-sized photos for friends. judging from the bulge, he guessed her parents bought her the largest predetermined picture package.
typical streaked blue background made her azure eyes bold, made wider under thick mascara, shiny hair perched in curls on her shoulder. he imagined her practicing her prom court smile in a hand mirror, her surprised face.
he flipped it over. in black stamped ink, it read <3 ya! and her name, written in pink gel pen bubble letters.

#187

from the first day we met, i was taken. pale and ethereal. you were a grandmother's china- dainty and full of blossoms, but everyone treated you as such, including me. you were put away on a shelf, so pristine, so rarely taken down and held and touched and used. no one willing to take responsibility for chipping you, maybe dropping you on the floor.
it was pure selfishness (an oxymoron at best), my own psyche- but i felt brave enough- foolishly believed i would not, could not let you break. it will never be enough, but i am so sorry. i am sorry i cannot pass you down to our children, to our grandchildren, to a world in need of carefully packed heirlooms.
you, who was so careful with every word, with every movement. you always loved as if one of us had died.

#186

"i saw the link to your online blog yesterday. i read some of it."
she was chewing gum, but more as an afterthought. not the way cheerleaders and football coaches do. "oh yeah? you like it?"
"the pictures are pretty and the whole atmosphere of the blog is tastefully artsy, maybe a little arrogant. enough to be intriguing. it's just not what i expected, i guess."
her face fell a bit and i saw her chewing over whether to ask any follow-up questions, unsure of where i was going with my critique. she inhaled, ready with defenses.
"it's just... you say it's about your life, and i know i can't tell you what your life is, or who you are. but you're not such a carefully crafted person in reality. you make mistakes and the lighting isn't always perfect, and you only see art films maybe twice a year. in real life you get angry about silly things and you step on bugs and you get dark circles under your eyes, which are decidedly un-artsy."
with a slow exhale, the defenses paused long enough to listen.
"i guess i just hope you don't think the life you portray is better than the life you live."

#185

funny how passing her on the sidewalk today made me look in the mirror for the first time in days. i haven't bought new clothes in so long... i know what all of them look like on me. stuck in perpetual suspension- i never lose or gain weight, height, dreams.
we've never met or spoken, but i've heard her voice and laugh after taking a call at the bus stop. she's a girl i'd like to ask out for drinks if there was a way to ask her without saying how much i fully like her even though we've never formally met.
it's better that today wasn't the day because the mirror tells me i'm due for a shave, a haircut, and i certainly don't have two bits.

#184

as requested, she wore a light, airy blue skirt, the kind that girls wear to coffee shops in the summertime, the ones that reveal lovely wintery pale legs and usually usher in girls' favorite summer pasttime of excusing themselves from impromptu frisbee games due to faux decency. the camera shuttered and clicked around my neck as she shyly melded into poses. long fingered hands in her hair. head, shoulders, knees and toes. scars and toes. bones and toes.
every flaw unscripted, now on film, now digitized for future scrutiny.
then late nights, adjusting lighting, adding effects, sepia this, layer that. hoping to draw beauty from the pain. she cannot acknowledge that each scar is her body rebuilding, every leftover divot in flesh is a reminder that she healed, that she did not die. if i can show her the truth of her healing, the tenderness and beauty of her percieved flaws, i can show her how i am aching to love her.