andelia
It's not respectable to cry. But right now my lashes are standing out, thick with tears and my eyes are a deep green. My aunt recently killed herself. That's not respectable. My mom likes to blame me for everything, I'm not respectable. I'm stupid and small and I sometimes want to drown myself in the bathtub. A very non-respectable way of dying.
But tomorrow I'll pretend to be respectable again and maybe things will be better.
It's not my fault. I was never looking for it. But there, hidden under ONE layer of folders, all of which had names appealing to me, was the file. I clicked on it, because it had a present on it for an image. And inside I found it. My father was gay. I was six and my dad was, without a doubt, very, VERY gay.
It's not true. Half the things I say. Half of them are all made up in order to sound like I live an interesting life. And maybe I do, but I twist the interesting to make it even more dramatic. I have a flair for the fantastic. My last boyfriend called me a fanatic for the freakish,
I heard this phrase, "A different breed of cat." i didn't quite know what it meant, but I really enjoyed the ring to it. So I googled it, hoping to find out the meaning I had already thought it could be. But when you google it, all you get is pet breeding sites and zoology websites.
I finally found success in my life. Join the Navy. check. Find a boy friend, check. Enjoy myself...
But then I realize that success isn't about the status you hold and the things you have. It's about how you feel about your life. I suppose I'm heading there, and I'm becoming happy... but I get confused sometimes.
He never noticed me when I was around. No, the only time I was on his mind was when he was bored. A call, a few laughs, and I was in his arms, in his house. In his bed. I never understood it until he broke my body. I never understood until he didn't give me a choice. Now I get people like him only too well.
I'm running the same route, but nothing ever feels right. I keep going, always going, like that little pink rabbit. I beat my drum and run to the same beat always. But nothing ever works out for me. I always want to change, but I see her, I see how she can't change and I wonder if that will be me. All my life, will I always be the same?
I had my best kiss in the library. He was an intern, working for little pay and no one was around. A few sharp words were exchanged and I followed him further into the stacks to explain how he was wrong on the topic. He grabbed me. Anger and fear, at first, then passion. It was incredible.
My mind is several pieces, all floating around while I think. Sometimes I wonder if I'm another person. Sometimes I know I am. I change and my mind splits. I am two and counting, but no one knows but me.
He leaves me on a shelf. Leaves me behind the glass, behind the vintage china. Sometimes he takes me out, remembers the days in the past, but he always puts me back because I am tarnished-just the way he left me. I am tarnished from disuse and I am worn from misuse and now I am tired, here, behind the vintage china on the wooden shelf. Shh, leave me here, for I am a distant memory of times in the past, never to be returned to my former radiance.
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