cmccrea
I feel repressed. Like there's a storm in my chest, a tempest of bottled emotion. I want to cry out, scream out, let it out. But I can't. Everyone says no, you have to be perfect, you have to be calm and collected. They repress me. One day the storm will grow too powerful for them and I will be free.
No matter what, he was always seated in the chair in the far left corner of the room whenever she came over- the one with this ugly paisley print and upholstery that stunk of cigarette smoke. He'd sit there while she watched him, taking a drag of his cigarette every so often while he stared at the bleak, white wall blankly. He'd pop his knuckles till they were red and sore, not caring one bit if he wouldn't be able to hold the bat right come Saturday when the rest of the neighborhood boys went out to play ball. He'd chew at his lip with those smoke stained, yellow teeth till it bled. He'd drag and he'd pop and he'd chew till the clock struck one and his mama came home from the restaurant in her little waitress outfit with a slice of pie wrapped in foil on a paper plate. She'd saved it just for him.
"How trifle," she says absently, picking at the laces of his sneakers. He finds it so strange to see someone as haggard and worn as this girl handling something so gently. He watches as she runs her fingertips along the length of the laces gingerly, reveling in the softness of an object, though so base and average to him, was a luxury she'd never seen nor felt.
The more she looked at his face, the better it looked, she decided.
At a glance, he looked unhappy; his brow was furrowed in constant suspicion, setting the rest of his features into a stern glare.
But if you looked closer-something she found herself doing more often these days-you could get a peek through the cracks in his little shell of anger, for his eyes-which offset the rest of his stark mask strongly-were laughing ones. They were like little shining gems of emerald resting on a bank of freshly fallen snow. Whenever he made her laugh, they would wrinkle around the edges and sparkle just a little bit more, creating an incredible contrast from the blank hardness of his expression. And she loved it, she loved them. She loved him.
She wished she could just reach up and smooth out the creases in his face and siphon out the doubt in his heart- but she couldn't.
The more she looked into his eyes, the more she loved him, she decided.
"Confide me," she whispers. "Give me some clues as to this poor, tragic boy really is. This boy who lives a world that conforms just for him, that gives his whatever he wants whenever he wants it.
He frowned and took a step forward. "This is a boy who's stuck in a world that lies to him, tells him that he should be happy-that he IS happy- when he knows he's not. This is a boy who has been told what he wants given nothing he needs."
She shook her head. "No one's telling you to do anything but you."
Here, there, everywhere I turn- it's always with me. Following me around, telling me I'm not good enough, that I don't fit the right mold. My mind can't understand this televised world and this televised world controls my mind.
To struggle- to struggle is to not know you could have possibly been anywhere better; to wonder if things will have ever change. Or have they even changed at all? Was it all just a mistake, a misconception of what you were feeling?
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