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when she was little, she dreamed of growing up and marrying and getting one of those american houses with those white picket fences out front. she kept this dream to herself through her grade school years, and even as her friends got more exotic, even as her ambitions and her skills grew in capacity, she held onto the same dream. and one day, she walked by a house and stared at the fence. with a blink and a shake of her head, she walked off with a sigh. damn, she'd had dumb dreams.

there was no other word for it other than a "strut," she thought with her face cradled in her hands and cheeks aflame. her best friend, her best man--he was STRUTTING down the runway in obscene designer pants and a ridiculous shirt with damn legitimate cleavage that did nothing to hide his toned body. "why," she whispered to herself as she looked away from the stage. "why must we be friends."

"give me liberty or give me death!" he cried indignantly at the top of his lungs, the class bursting into a chorus of laughter when the teacher raised on wry eyebrow at the troublemaking student. "liberty for the rest of us is you in jail," she responded dryly, and the student fell back into his seat with a slack grin. he shrugged when his seat partner punched him in the arm with a mocking smile. "hey, it was worth a shot."

scar

battle scars littered the expanse of her arm, some from the violent demons within and some from external forces of self-hatred and loathing. she'd tried covering them up, at one point, with long sleeves and broken gloves and an assortment of bulky jewelry, but she'd given up with time. her battles were something to be proud of, she'd decided one day as she traced the lines with her fingers. she did, after all, wear her heart on her sleeve.

he shook the slip of paper, muttering about fancyass digital cameras and their fancyass features and their fancyass automatic panorama as he glared at the photos splayed across the walls, sweeping landscapes of exotic lands and photosets of nature on its closest level. he squinted and held the photo up to the light, trying to discern beyond its shady shapes and vague features. "i'll build my own panorama," he muttered, and slipped it into his pocket.

blemishes were scattered across her back, coloring her pale skin a dark purplish bruise. she hid her beautiful, scarred face in the crook of her elbow, sepia-tone hair falling in a sleek curtain hiding her from the world. "i'm ugly," she whispered quietly into the emptiness of the cold and unfeeling bathroom floor, sinking down onto bitterly cruel tiles. a constellation of scars marred her shoulders and her back, and she tucked her face between her knees.

he caught her sleeve, head bowed low and lips raw from hours of fierce biting. "...don't go," he whispered softly, so quiet and so inside that the wind almost carried his voice away like so many dandelions before him. she stopped, hair streaming out behind her and tears streaming down her face and she, in turn, clutched his sleeve and pulled him close. "i'm sorry," she murmured, pressing a soft kiss to his lips before turning around again and tugging her shirtsleeve away. "i'm so, so sorry."

despite her complete lack of religious beliefs, she had always found temples to be rather ethereal places. sunlight stunningly filtered through pearly windows of sound echoed throughout the room, filling up the dark spaces with beams of light and--terrible as it may sound--life. on sunny summer afternoons, she would visit the old tree in the garden by the back of her local buddhist temple and watch the monks sit and pray; it was calming to her, and even if she herself didn't believe in any one of the gods, she believed in a god. her god.

there was a palette of emotions to choose from, she thought as she mused over her latest creation. he could be funny, but that would mean eliminating the already established cockiness because arrogance always decreased the value of hilarity. she would make him be one of those obnoxious child prodigies who were too smart and too perfect for their own good, but she didn't want to play into common stereotypes. she grinned. philosophy may have been a complete waste of a year in high school but it taught her one thing; if you don't like the world you're in, make one of your own.

sometimes she imagined herself to be the kind of girl that would imagine being the fairy princess locked up and away in a tower among the clouds, pining and sighing away for her dashing young hero to overcome the dragon and brave the thorns to save her beautiful soul. she, however, much preferred imagining herself as the dragon who really only kidnapped the girl to save her (honestly, how many corsets can one waist take?) and befriended both the petty princess and the pompous prince. too bad she wasn't. too bad she had every other girl's dream and her very own little nightmare.

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writing since 2011 · 83 entries · 82 days shown up

each square is a day—lit means Leanne showed up.

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on this day 15 years ago

Leanne wrote about alarmist
“"what the hell, man?" he hissed at his friend, gripping the collar of his shirt. "what are you, an--an alarmist or something? why would you do that, you almost got us caught!" the younger boy crossed…”

the words Leanne reaches for

eyesheartloveherselffacehomegirlsimplynowbehindfriendshellwatchheadhimselfbetter