Baby, I Make the Corner Cry
Minions
One of her friends is a red head, with hair kept long passed her shoulders. Her face isn't painted with the make-up of the other girls. Her lips are dry and cracked. She's taller than the blonde, and almost scrawnier. Her tiny, breakable bones are hiding under a sweater three times too big, and it seems that her stick legs lead down to wedged shoes her bony feet won't grow into. She's not a rambunctious as the others, wrapping her arms around her waist, as if to create some false sense of being safe, in someone else's arms. She watches the ground as she walks; each intricate little step in front of the other. She's not getting anything from being with these girls.
The second is more filled out than both the blonde and the red-head. Her hair is dyed far too dark for her bad complexion. It seems as if she's teasing, the way her voluptuous breasts are half-exposed from under the tank top it seems she has purposely bought a size too small. Her ass fills out her jeans, and she's tripping in her stilettos as she laughs hysterically at a witty comment, or a dirty word written in graffiti at the front of a building. She's clumsy and loud, and she already reeks of alcohol and cigarettes.
The third is just as loud as the second, skipping ahead of her friends in a horrid attempt for attention. Her lips are painted bright red, and her chocolate brown hair is lost in a fit of tangles that must have been an organized bouquet of ringlets at one point in time. She's wearing a dress, that's elegantly flowing outwards around her as she spins in laughter. She's charismatic, and most likely the best looking of the four, but she's trying too hard. Her chest is too flat for her dress and a pair of Converse sneakers pokes out from the bottom of her dirty knee-length dress. The floral scent is over-powering; she's trying to cover up something far worse.
The blonde is the only one who seems to notice I exist, with her hand still pasted to my arm like an unwanted responsibility. She doesn't seem to mind and so I wonder if I do at all. She reminds me of you, but more innocent. I look down at her sad, pitiful eyes only to look away when I realize she's looking back. Every muscle in my body tenses up; I keep my gaze forward where nobody can read it.
The second is more filled out than both the blonde and the red-head. Her hair is dyed far too dark for her bad complexion. It seems as if she's teasing, the way her voluptuous breasts are half-exposed from under the tank top it seems she has purposely bought a size too small. Her ass fills out her jeans, and she's tripping in her stilettos as she laughs hysterically at a witty comment, or a dirty word written in graffiti at the front of a building. She's clumsy and loud, and she already reeks of alcohol and cigarettes.
The third is just as loud as the second, skipping ahead of her friends in a horrid attempt for attention. Her lips are painted bright red, and her chocolate brown hair is lost in a fit of tangles that must have been an organized bouquet of ringlets at one point in time. She's wearing a dress, that's elegantly flowing outwards around her as she spins in laughter. She's charismatic, and most likely the best looking of the four, but she's trying too hard. Her chest is too flat for her dress and a pair of Converse sneakers pokes out from the bottom of her dirty knee-length dress. The floral scent is over-powering; she's trying to cover up something far worse.
The blonde is the only one who seems to notice I exist, with her hand still pasted to my arm like an unwanted responsibility. She doesn't seem to mind and so I wonder if I do at all. She reminds me of you, but more innocent. I look down at her sad, pitiful eyes only to look away when I realize she's looking back. Every muscle in my body tenses up; I keep my gaze forward where nobody can read it.