“You clout!” I nearly screamed before I could stop myself. “Look what you’ve done to my dress!”
the walls of my childhood bedroom
mopped up all my tears like a mouthless mother,
silent and seeping. a sin eater.
she welcomes me back
with open-mouthed kisses leaking
my own fermented poison.
the fingertips up and down my back are
in the back of a concrete building i find the place
where i wrote, in sharpie, ‘TIFFANY WAS HERE!’
for the first time.
that desperate need to exist never really left me.
lying on my back,
her tongue traces the bottom row of my teeth,
the crooked front two
a harsh gate.
(one by one, collapsing)
balloons filled with breath that could have
saved someone once.
Knock me over
with another clout
time is short
and days are wafting smoke rings
‘Round my eyes
I’m almost there
but oh, so far away
“Ya big clout! Look what you’ve done! Ya idiot!” I shouted, shoving him away from my cot.
The others should’ve laughed at my attempts; after all, I was one 5’2″ 100lbs girl against one Dedrik, who had at least 80lbs and a foot on me on me.
And yet I didn’t hear a sound.
If I had been any other little girl, it would have been hysterical.
But I wasn’t any other little girl.
I was ME.
And Dedrik all but fled from my wrath.
Her skin is pale and wafer-thin. If the wind continues to blow any harder, I’m afraid that it will simply crack and flake away.
“You’re already on wafer thin ice with the school, Tara.” she huffed, running a hand through her rapidly greying hair. “What am I going to DO with you?”
“You don’t have to do ANYTHING with me.” she snarled, rising from the chair and marching towards the door. “Just send me back. You’ll be better off; an’ it’s not like I’m more to you than a fuckin’ check anyway.” she snapped before stepping outside and slamming the door closed behind her.
There wasn’t anything to say. She was simply astounded. This, was dessert. This, this pathetic wafer sitting on an oversize serving platter. Surely it was a joke.
She was perfect. The only one at the casting with sensible hair. Not the pink or electric blue or lime green that many now wear in order to “express their individuality”. Didn’t they realise it simply made them all the same.
It fell away from his healed arm in large flakes. Grimacing, I tried to pick my way around the piles of casting material laying on the floor.
“Step in here, please.”
We’ve all read at least one story of a young actor’s choice to face the terrifying faces of those who are paid to judge.
“Whenever you’re ready.”
About how they stood on the mark and, always, always, took a deep breath, and their voice only stopped shaking on the last line.
“We’ll let you know.”
We’ve heard they didn’t get the part, and now they grin and gloat about those fools, behind the cover of their starring role.
“How’d you do?”
Of course, at that moment they feel as though the act of living is one that needs reimbursement, for the failure it proved to be.
“What else am I gonna do?”
We’ve heard the stories, haven’t we?
broken statues chipped and worn by the fables of harsh time
we mend wearily
seeking chisels and steady hammers
awaiting our sunlight to burst through
shine golden attention
her rays casting upon our marbled faces
“Send the first one in, Dan.” he says, sitting back in his chair.
Dan moves to the door, spiel ready. “Casting call number one: reading for the part of Abigail Tanner. Who’s first?”
The first girl is terrible, elocution all over the place. The second is worse, somehow. The seventh has him gritting his teeth.
By the time the tenth enters he’s already burned out for the day.
“Hi, I’m, uh, number ten?” her tone is even, bright but not overly so; any other day, he’d be impressed.
“Name?” he asks, pen primed.
She thinks he hears her sigh. “Summer Rayne.”
He looks up, cocking a brow in disbelief. Wordlessly, she pulls out her license and hands it to him for his inspection. He cracks a smile as he returns it to her and she shrugs. “My parents were hippies.” she explains, the even tone of her voice suggesting that she’s had to explain her nomenclature more than once.
The stone flung through the air, thrown from the catapult, and it landed on the damp earth with a “thwuck”. Well, that was unusual, thought Thomas, seeing the stone at his feet.
I’m in the mood for melodies
Dancing around real campfires, in crackling woods
With tambourines and bells to make it better
Waking up to swordfights, clashing in practice
Knowing- yes, that’s it, I’d like to know
That our happiness is justified, and we’re going to win
He practically catapulted himself over the furniture in his eagerness to greet me.
That night. The night. It will always be cased in resin, perfectly preserved; the perfect night.
We both indulged in some psychedelics that night. Though, your trip was going downhill while mine soared. I could feel your uncomfortableness. It pulsed out to me like radio waves. You went away to try and purge yourself of the fungus that was tormenting you. You came back, still with fear painted on your face. You were not free from the spores. You said that they still had you in the palm of their hands. So we left, to the outdoors. As soon as the cool air hit my lungs, I felt intertwined, connected; to everything. I felt the life of everything pulse and breathe. I looked over to you, and some relief seemed to crawl upon your face.
We walked all over campus. I had not a clue where my feet were taking me, but they seemed to know. I was a passenger to my own body. My eyes took in the dark night, glistening with water droplets from the morning. Even in the death of the end of fall, there was still life. Lights glowed and danced, colors popped out from all depths of the spectrum. We walked, and followed to wherever my feet led us. For hours we wandered, lost in the tranquility.
We crossed a bridge, and you took my hand. Even in my state of mind, I knew this was monumental for you. Hand holding was not one of the fonder things on your list, so I treasured how your hand encased mine. So together we walked. Back to my room, hand in hand.
We hardly noticed the cold, though inside my room the warmth blanketed us. We lay on the bed, your head on my chest, looking at nothing but each other. You sit up, eyes still locked on mine. In that moment, I swear I felt your soul. I was so connected to you, and you to I.
And in that moment, you whispered, ”I love you.”
How did she get catapulted into this mess? It wasn’t her style to get involved in things that didn’t explicitly concern her; she knew the price for digging into other peoples business and it was damn STEEP.
So then why? Why was this slip of a girl an exception to every rule she’d ever set in place? What was so damned special about her?
And why couldn’t she muster even ONE ounce of regret for stepping in to protect her?
Sing me your songs, and sign me your triplicates
Tell me why I’m happy, or just let it be
No shocks of angry hair
Just smooth, smooth, over wishes and dreams
A scattered stain glass look
And fly on the Capricorn
Lullabies cleaning the sky
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