she bends and folds the picture of a pretty girl she used to whisper to in the tiny hours of lost nighs, to see if she can form it into something that will reflect some kind of peaceful and appeasing image in her mind, though they're screaming that she's not worth it. she's not worth the space or air or soft minutes they spend dancing around what they really should, but won't, say. and he does the same, only in a more polite way. he walks by her one more time and she drops to the floor, hoping to put on a show to get him to stop and notice that he's taking with him, everything she ever had. of course, he doesn't have the time to notice, so he flips her the finger and continues walking... and she should be disapointed, but she's already had this from her friends wallowing in their own pools of unexplained self-illusions. so she plays with the picture instead. look up from that crumpled form of a remembered, but soon to be forgotten, nostalgia and smile. flawless... perfect... but not for her. nothing is ever good enough for her. so she continues crying. i wish she'd stop, i'm afraid they'll hear her and ask what's wrong. and she, having lost her tongue in the war of speaking her mind... and already having made her throat raw... could not tell them what they want to hear. so she puts the picture to her face and it melts well with the smeared lipstick smile she holds together with coroding acceptance... bleeding and consuming... she's asking for me to hold this all together. she's not ready for the failure yet... but i've seen it coming for days. she bends me one more time
 Made27 · Sun Dec 19, 2004 @ 06:59pm · 0 Comments |
