swheela
graduation day;
you handed me a baby cactus
and wished me all the best.
i throw down my umbrella
and close my eyes-
letting the warm gentle raindrops
kiss my eyelids and slide off my lashes to make their way down my cheeks.
contentedly, i jump in a puddle and remember
days when i was easily forgiven for such things.
the sun peaks from somewhere beyond a distant cloud
and the light catches on a million shimmering crystals falling towards the earth-
towards the dirt, and the grass, and the things that will soon live.
you're telling me
without saying anything.
my gut wrenches.
that's all i needed to hear.
wonder is
(the feeling i get)
when i eat chocolate frozen yogurt/
when i -miraculously- weigh two pounds less (the morning after eating said frozen yogurt)/
when i see my name on a cast list/
when i read about a man jumping on an alligator to save his dog/
when i hear fingers dancing across piano keys/
when i hold a newborn/
when i collapse onto my bed breathless after dancing alone in my room/
when i purposefully get lost in a new city/
when i lose my place counting the stars/
when i see an elderly couple legitimately in love/
when i think about how the only person who never deserved to die
willingly did so for a world that rejected him.
psychology class.
he (beautiful and brooding) used to sit in the far left corner.
next to the window.
it was presentation day.
friday afternoon.
i did a Grinch impression.
he laughed.
the most pleasant laugh.
i felt accomplished.
he went last.
he said
he'd been accepted to his first choice school.
he was going to pursue an engineering degree.
his knee was messed up too bad for him to keep playing football.
oh, and he hated his dad for abandoning him and his mom and his sister.
he laughed.
the saddest laugh.
the teacher said she suspected he had some pent up emotions he needed to get out.
he laughed, again.
a nervous laugh.
the teacher laughed.
embarrassed.
his friends
(and the people who always wished they were his friends) laughed.
theirs was laughter of those who completely missed the joke.
but on monday,
when the corner seat by the window was empty,
nobody laughed.
- a flesh canvas.
a base coat of ivory ---shade 105. (7% titanium dioxide and octinoxate. 93%...?)
two symmetrical circular smudges the shade of pink lemonade (equidistant on either side of her nose) are intended to give definition to hollows that don't actually exist.
she considers something shimmery for her lids ---to substitute for the sparkle that has long since been missing from the now, otherwise, lackluster grey-blue eyes--
glitter, perhaps?
a dark brown shadow is added to the crease to create the illusion of...depth(?)
concentration increases as she pulls out some onyx liquid and a charcoal pencil.
cat or doe eyes, today?
she wills her quivering hand to stop shaking as she --ever so carefully-- attempts to draw thin lines (or not so thin --depending on how daring she feels in that particular moment) across the rim or her eyelids just above the lashes.
her hand slips. black ink bleeds into her eye.
she blinks sporadically.
ebony tears leak down her cheek.
she grabs a cotton-ball and dabs her face dry---fiercely she restores the areas of her disrupted creation.
she then takes out a small brush (reminiscent of a miniature porcupine) and proceeds to comb her lashes with careful strokes. upward and out. upward and out. upward and out.
*ah, a perfect curl.*
she does the other.
then, of course, she takes out her eyebrow pencil and begins to fill in the gaps where the hair fails to lie just so. she heightens the arch. suddenly she looks mysterious.
but she knows there is no mystery.
and, finally, her lips.
what do they say today? (she looks at her vast gloss collection.)
I'm earthy? (brown.)
I'm sensual? (red.)
I'm innocent? (pink.)
I'm hurting and scared and confused and exhausted and (more often than not) hungry?(!)
..........
....nothing.
they say nothing.
red. she decides.
red, will do just fine.
she smears it across the perfect cupid's bow of her lips.
she smiles.
(she is)
a perfect portrait.
a beautiful lie.
- a flesh canvas.
a base coat of ivory ---shade 105. (7% titanium dioxide and octinoxate. 93%...?)
two symmetrical circular smudges the shade of pink lemonade (equidistant on either side of her nose) are intended to give definition to hollows that don't actually exist.
she considers something shimmery for her lids ---to substitute for the sparkle that has long since been missing from the now, otherwise, lackluster grey-blue eyes--
glitter, perhaps?
a dark brown shadow is added to the crease to create the illusion of...depth(?)
concentration increases as she pulls out some onyx liquid and a charcoal pencil.
cat or doe eyes, today?
she wills her quivering hand to stop shaking as she --ever so carefully-- attempts to draw thin lines (or not so thin --depending on how daring she feels in that particular moment) across the rim or her eyelids just above the lashes.
her hand slips. black ink bleeds into her eye.
she blinks sporadically.
ebony tears leak down her cheek.
she grabs a cotton-ball and dabs her face dry---fiercely she restores the areas of her disrupted creation.
she then takes out a small brush (reminiscent of a miniature porcupine) and proceeds to comb her lashes with careful strokes. upward and out. upward and out. upward and out.
*ah, a perfect curl.*
she does the other.
then, of course, she takes out her eyebrow pencil and begins to fill in the gaps where the hair fails to lie just so. she heightens the arch. suddenly she looks mysterious.
but she knows there is no mystery.
and, finally, her lips.
what do they say today? (she looks at her vast gloss collection.)
I'm earthy? (brown.)
I'm sensual? (red.)
I'm innocent? (pink.)
I'm hurting and scared and confused and exhausted and (more often than not) hungry?(!)
....nothing.
they say nothing.
red. she decides.
red, will do just fine.
she smears it across the perfect cupid's bow of her lips.
she smiles.
(she is)
a perfect portrait.
a beautiful lie.
you see her
(a freckle-spattered
fair-skinned (catholic school(?)) girl
-with auburn locks-
wearing the criss-crossed black and green of her (apparent) ancestry)
and hear bagpipes.
chalk screeching on the board.
shivers up my spine.
hairs erect.
blood chills.
silence.
sweet silence.
writing since 2011 · 9 entries · 8 days shown up
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