yesiac
what things go through your mind when you're not with me? what thoughts are you thinking, when I don't know what's on your mind? not knowing scares me sometimes. when you won't speak, and what you say doesn't seem to line up with what you're thinking because it sounds intentional and forced. I don't like not knowing; I don't like wondering what you think when you're not with me.
Dara and the bee or wasp or whatever it was at lunch. She jumped up and screamed--bees, germs, whatever, she's afraid of them and she's an odd one but I love it in her--and we're being stared at by everyone around us, but this bee is determined to get our food and eventually I'm screaming and jumping around and we're both ridiculous and laughing but we love it.
Under the covers or under the bed or the couch or the rug or whatever was in the room that she could hide it beneath. Things like these didn't matter to others, only her, and they weren't worth mentioning to everyone else. So the stupid silly things that bother her and that she laughs about while feeling a little bit bitter all get swept underneath the glaringly visible objects that nobody will miss, because if they notice it then they won't care to look under it and see her insecurities.
We have the best conversations. They're always random, always strange, always disjointed and crazy and half the time we're typing in all caps without regard for punctuation or grammar--you're an example of a part of my life that's inside me, that I can't let go and don't ever want to let go because it's a part of my core and infused into my entire being by now.
It was the most uninteresting color she'd ever seen: brown. And she was disappointed, at first. Who wanted a plain brown bird? It flitted around happy as any other little bird in a cage, but she hated it for the first few hours. It was brown--she'd wanted blue, or red, or maybe something with a pretty pattern of colors. What she got was brown. But brown that, she discovered, had a pretty pattern worked into its feathers, which she couldn't see until she convinced the little bird to contemplate hopping onto her finger (it didn't, not today, but it stayed still and close long enough for her to see the fainter cream and white spots under its breast), and she figured that even brown birds could have pretty colors, and brown wasn't always only brown.
Though it was originally purchased for an entirely different person by an entirely different person, the simplicity of the ring appealed to her when its intended declined to accept it. Her mother didn't need the cute ring, though it was her birthstone; the girl wears it now, and she thinks of someone other than the boy that bought it for her (the boy that doted on her, and though she never asked and never manipulated he did anything he thought she would want and that, ultimately, was what drove her away).
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