"What the hell does that mean?"
She just folds her arms in front of herself and glares at me.
"Oh c'mon! How long are you gonna be pissed at me," I ask as I give her a shoulder-bump.
Her head lowers sharply as she stares daggers where my flesh(more) had the nerve to touch hers.
"Do not touch me," she hisses, followed by silence.
"You know, you're driving me nuts! Is that your "Big Plan"? You're just gonna keep on being a mood-swinging pain in my ass until you wear me down?"
My head is pounding from all this up and down bullshit plus I was furious for letting her get me so mad that I actually used 'air-quotes' and I fucking hate 'air-quotes' and I swear I'm gonna kill her or something pretty soon because on top of everything else she now has me rambling to the point where I have to remind myself to take a breath and what is this pain shooting through my body?
And I almost miss her smirk.
"What now?" I snap at her.
"You still don't get it do you," she asks softly.
"See! This is what I mean, one minute you're all cranky and the next minute you're, umm, what's the hell?"
Something's wrong.
She continues to smirk, a little glimmer in her eyes which are now focused on my shoulders.
"What!!!"
"Chica, look."
She's got my porceline hand mirror and she holds it in front of me.
I have to say, I think she was more surprised than me.
Somewhere between these awesome biker-boots appearing on my feet and my latest little tirade I'd sprouted wings.
Fucking wings.
Wings sprang out of my shoulder-blades.
Not white wings, not black wings, but gray fluffy feathered wings.
"What did you-"
"Not me chica,you."(less)
Hair styles and fashion in general have never been strong suits of mine. I've loved wearing my hair down ever since I was little. Partly because I don't like taking the time to do fancy things to it, and partly because it comes out looking ugly if I try.(more) The only hair style I've truly mastered is putting it up in a pony tail.
I have no problem with other people doing my hair, however. Back in fourth grade, I had a best friend who was completely obsessed with fashion and looking glamorous. She loved doing our hair and makeup, and creating crazy games for us that involved time machines and living in ancient time periods. She was a very innovative person.
But one night, during one of our sleepovers, she had a different idea. Her brother, older then us by two years, had a crush on me. And she talked me into letting her do my hair and makeup just so we could "play a game" with her brother and his friend. This game included looking sexy and flirting with them. But considering the fact that we were in fourth grade, it wasn't really flirting.
"Come on. Let me put it up," she whined, pleading me with her eyes.
I sighed. Doing what she wanted would probably mean making a fool out of myself in front of her older brother. But I wanted her to be happy. "Fine..." I say reluctantly, not bothering to hide the disdain in my voice
A side pony tail and four layers of lip gloss and eye makeup later, my look was complete. "You look...perfect!" she squealed.
Her brother seemed to think so too, for some reason.(less)
Theres a way of mine
under flowing water sin
stretched trim abdomen
the surreal of the sun
and the sum and the sum
often theres none
(more) mix rum and folded gum
something rubs
oozes blood
a distant grainy sign
a time around my mind
and a rhyme and a rhyme
the wearing down of time(less)
Rubbing is something I don't like to do, because it wears on my skin and my psyche, but also because it's not easy to hide from others. The raw red skin is easily visible and people realize what I'm doing, wearing myself down. But I can't stop the feeling(more) of not wanting to be here. I don't want it to stop.(less)
not a poem
not ever a poet
skin is too tight and every noise
just so loud
the light bends
in silly ways and it makes the colors
(more) look so different
(less)
