Dye A Wreath- by Jac Shipp
February 1st- Damien and Clara
Ohhhhh my goodness. How was a small teen heart supposed to handle this? A grip sure would be nice right about now. A nice, sturdy grip, much better than the one I have on reality.
My eyes were recording simply what was in front of me. The motion of her neck, the bend of her knee, the way his face disappeared behind her mess of hair. You know how I said "small" teen heart? Well, yeah, could you go back and add broken to that? Just wanted to keep you updated.
I wanted to scream profanities, right now I want to write them in the fiercest black ink, press the words into the page in a fury uncharacteristic of myself. Back there, that was the boy I've given my entire self to making out with the girl I'd given my trust to. Otherwise known as, my 2 year boyfriend kissing my 14 year best friend. Why? I have no idea. I have no witticisms. I have the following: hurt, a bowl of Cherry Garcia, more hurt, a really wet face.
I know it's going to hurt a little more, but maybe I should look at my own history a little? Well, I met Damien 3 years ago, freshman year. He was the instant attraction that every girl had, though not many were for Damien. He was like my own personal target, and man I wanted to hit that. ^.^ He was a sophomore, rocking the emo look, caught up in a world because of its intrigue. He wasn't sad, or dark. Never had a serious suicidal thought in his life, he felt like he had a purpose here on this world. He wanted to be something larger than himself, he couldn't stand the hours of introspection his friends spent. He told me it hurt him to see his friends throwing away their time like paper cups filled with emotion so bitter no sugar could cure it.
We would talk for hours about each other. He was so curious. What did I want to be? Why? Did I like school? Want a job? Believe in God? Watch the Lakers game? Anything remotely interesting was up for grabs in our conversations. I ate it up, and he ate my face a year later after our second date. After we started going out, he started hanging around my friends more and more and found a crowd a little more upbeat. We became a large part of each other's lives. Right now, a large portion of my wardrobe is lying hostage in the bottom drawer of his dresser. I'm staring at my desk drawers, my mind creating an almost x-ray vision of the band shirts and "I swear they're not skinny!" jeans.
She. She is/was simply my best friend. Clara. She carried me out of times darker than her black hair dye. She flew with me in times that compete with the perfect parties, bong circles and feel-good moments offered on television. Now, I'm not sure a motorcycle with a side car painted pink is still my dream vehicle. What do I need a side car for?
Tomorrow is only a day away, but Annie, I'm not sure I'm in love with your man.
My eyes were recording simply what was in front of me. The motion of her neck, the bend of her knee, the way his face disappeared behind her mess of hair. You know how I said "small" teen heart? Well, yeah, could you go back and add broken to that? Just wanted to keep you updated.
I wanted to scream profanities, right now I want to write them in the fiercest black ink, press the words into the page in a fury uncharacteristic of myself. Back there, that was the boy I've given my entire self to making out with the girl I'd given my trust to. Otherwise known as, my 2 year boyfriend kissing my 14 year best friend. Why? I have no idea. I have no witticisms. I have the following: hurt, a bowl of Cherry Garcia, more hurt, a really wet face.
I know it's going to hurt a little more, but maybe I should look at my own history a little? Well, I met Damien 3 years ago, freshman year. He was the instant attraction that every girl had, though not many were for Damien. He was like my own personal target, and man I wanted to hit that. ^.^ He was a sophomore, rocking the emo look, caught up in a world because of its intrigue. He wasn't sad, or dark. Never had a serious suicidal thought in his life, he felt like he had a purpose here on this world. He wanted to be something larger than himself, he couldn't stand the hours of introspection his friends spent. He told me it hurt him to see his friends throwing away their time like paper cups filled with emotion so bitter no sugar could cure it.
We would talk for hours about each other. He was so curious. What did I want to be? Why? Did I like school? Want a job? Believe in God? Watch the Lakers game? Anything remotely interesting was up for grabs in our conversations. I ate it up, and he ate my face a year later after our second date. After we started going out, he started hanging around my friends more and more and found a crowd a little more upbeat. We became a large part of each other's lives. Right now, a large portion of my wardrobe is lying hostage in the bottom drawer of his dresser. I'm staring at my desk drawers, my mind creating an almost x-ray vision of the band shirts and "I swear they're not skinny!" jeans.
She. She is/was simply my best friend. Clara. She carried me out of times darker than her black hair dye. She flew with me in times that compete with the perfect parties, bong circles and feel-good moments offered on television. Now, I'm not sure a motorcycle with a side car painted pink is still my dream vehicle. What do I need a side car for?
Tomorrow is only a day away, but Annie, I'm not sure I'm in love with your man.