Dead girl walking
We were secret sisters with a plan for world domination, potential bubbling around us like champagne.
If I weren’t so tired, I’d shove trust and issue down the garbage disposal and let it run all day.
I’m angry that I starved my brain and that I sat shivering in my bed at night instead of dancing or reading poetry or eating icecream or kissing a boy or maybe a girl…
You were born with the seeds of your talent, the ability to observe the world around you and weave piece of it into a story. I believe that most-if not all-people are born with these seeds. What separates the writers from the non-writers is that the writers actually sit down and, you know… write.
I am so sorry. I wish you knew even one tenth of one percent of how sorry I am. …It was my fault. Can I kill myself here, or should I do it outside, so the mess on your carpet doesn’t upset your mother?
Grandma frowned and yelled something in Russian. She could have been saying, ‘Open up, your best friend is here.’ On the other hand, it could have been, ‘America is a great country because of canned ravioli.
I need a new friend. I need a friend, period. Not a true friend, nothing close or share clothes or sleepover giggle giggle yak yak. Just a pseudo-friend, disposable friend. Friend as accessory. Just so I don’t feel or look so stupid.
I want to tell him that it’s just a stupid car, but bits of me are scattered all over town; the graveyard, school, Cassie’s room, the motel, and standing in from of the sink in my mother’s kitchen. It takes too much energy to gather all the bits together, so I just sit there and watch him implode.
The smoke shifted direction and I breathed in. Breathed out. On the inhale I was angry. On the exhale…there it was again. Fear. The fear made me angry and the anger made me afraid and I wasn’t sure who he was anymore. Or who I was.