flyingwithoutyourwings
The stairs were rickety. The third step from the top was almost worn through; splinters lined the sides of a steadily growing hole. She pretended it was a secret hole, where she could store her secrets and her dreams. And her regrets, but she didn't like to think about those as much.
She was outlandish. She was different. She wore her hair down, she wore dull silver earrings and heavy sweatshirts. In a land of flamingos, she was a pigeon.
She raised a trembling hand to her forehead. She swallowed back her tears. She shouldn't be doing this, her mother had said. Not for her father. You can't present a folded American flag to yourself.
But she did it anyway. She had to.
The mahogany coffin gleamed dimly. She liked to think it was her father reminding her how proud he was.
So she prayed.
The sand was hot and gritty between her toes. The wind slapped her across the face, dragging handfuls of salt through her hair. her curls were frizzing in every direction, and her shoulders were already an unhealthy shade of tomato red.
She loved the beach.
Being by myself had never been a burden. I never saw myself as "alone." I saw myself as having room to grow, having room to spread out and get comfortable and learn whatever I needed to know. I always thought that there was something cheesy about other people. Something fake. So I just stayed out of the way.
Scraped knees were never something you considered to be beautiful. But fuck you, I love my scraped knees. You're not the only person in this world with ideals, you know. You're just the only person in this world who cares about them.
It was hard, picking up your heart and sewing it back together again. It wasn’t like I was fitting together my own broken pieces. There were all sorts of nicks on yours, scratches I wasn’t even sure you knew about. All I could do was hold on for you.
writing since 2010 · 12 entries · 11 days shown up
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