I’m plugged into my MP3 player so I can’t hear anything: damn crickets, voices that crackle like static, distant over the radio.
Voices that are still somehow still attached to people that once upon a time I couldn’t live without, and now can barely stand the sight of seven out of ten chances.
The only thing that connects us is the smallest thing in the world: blood.
I’m perched somewhere, I’m thinking a quickly fading moonbeam, and have no idea what’s going to happen when it finally fades completely.
If it weren’t for a few pics from events where I’m someone else, pr around strangers, no one would know that I’m part of this family.
I’d be easy to wipe off, a smear on an otherwise clean mirror. A shining, perfect mirror that, where the shadows their quiet fingertips, are scratches and dust, from what they don’t want anyone to see.
I’m a mother that’s never been pregnant and is still a virgin.
I’m an adult that isn’t old enough to vote, and who can’t make her own decisions because her parents are ignoring it.
I’m living in the shell of a girl who’s wandering somewhere, lost.
I have a mug with a teabag still left in it from almost a week ago. Markers, papers, batteries, money, my wallet, a magazine, and my laptop are what I’ve managed to use to define my life.
It’s easier to love when you only see their words, and through that their voice.
Or see their pictures of what they’ve seen and pretend that you were standing next to them as they took it, the flash disorienting you for a minute as you blinked rapidly.
I always figured I’d be one of those people who had everything figured out, but fate used her same trick and yet, the only thing I have figured out is that: I don’t know anything.
Actually, not true. I know that: I want to go to Oxford after graduation and never look back. Leave it all behind.
I’m not a fifteen year old teen girl. I’m not. I’ve had/still have more responsibilities that kids older than me haven’t had, and won’t have for a while.
That I’m pretty sure that I don’t want kids. I love them to fucking death, but I don’t want to inflict the oldest with being an adult and parent and make them give up being a kid without asking.
I don’t want that. And, I know that I’d do what my parents have done.
Not that I’m saying that it’s all their fault. I should have told them to fuck off and let me be a kid.
Then again, it’s not I knew what fuck off meant, nor what having responsibility would do to me, or what it meant I had to give up/
I’m the daughter my father never wanted, and only a person to clean spilled milk.
I’ve been bumped from “eldest” to “person who inhabits a room”.
My best friend left me for writing, growing up, Ikea, and yoga.
We both diverted crying with laughter and promises of calls.
The laws of Fate, Time and Space have stolen the only person who a.) understood me and b.) talked to me in public.
