of a silly girl.

About her.

She was nothing to me, 

A silly little girl,

A baby-faced red-haired girl,

Whom I tolerated for a year. 

A mess of a girl in torn dresses and inflamed cheeks,

A satchel of crumpled convictionless ideas, 

She stared longingly at my ribbons, coat and books. 

I used to laugh at her clumsy apologetic ways, 

The nervous stroking of her hair, that childish glee in her smile.

She was dense and dreamy, giddy and naive,

Accidentally dropping sheets of scribble-penned nightmares. 

We would hide them from the hallway together. She would not hide from me. 

We went to the seaside together, 

To the city together, 

Treasuring pebbles and sights too precious and private for a photograph,

Alone together,

Ensconced in the rare beauty of honesty and, after a while, shy desire.

She was always a frightened little dove, 

Shivering at the foot of a tree in a dark forest, 

While I, the bear, sheltered her from the snow.

Caring hurt when we found ourselves in darkened passages, 

My vicious vinegar words too sour  for her sweet tooth, 

Her tears fell too hard for me to stay afloat. 

She lived and breathed for me, 

And she was my case to crack. 

Frustrating. More than that, infuriating. 

Having her was like sword-fighting with a twig. Stupid girl. 

But you see, I would try to escape. 

I would try to write or paint or just walk the f**k away, 

But my messy ruby girl was the one fragile string that tied me to this world. 

Now, a year later, she's severed the ties. 

I float, terrified, into a black dimension, 

Hearing rumours of her conquered land, 

And I dare not see her face, 

For fear of destroying her empire. 

And I hear my thoughts and remember my own pathetic dreams,

and I am reminded, 

That's it's foolish of me to think that she was anything less than everything to me. 

Author's Note

This is nothing.

Reviews

[L.]

Ouch. This is painfully lovely.