Rosie

     Rosie cries.

 

     Rosie cries alone.

 

     Rosie's room is dark. Rosie's corner is the darkest of all. Rosie sniffs and wipes her eyes upon her cheek. Rosie did not choose to be Rosie. But Rosie is Rosie, and no other. And for this, ever, Rosie cries alone. Rosie's soul is like a cascading supernova. It shines and blinks, and scatters to every corner. Rosie gives and Rosie gives. And every weary crippled soul reaches up and grabs a piece. Rosie lies in crumbling fickle silence, and ever ever, Rosie cries.

 

     Rosie laughs. Rosie laughs a pretty, quirky laugh, like birds in summer at the beginning of time. Rosie rides the roller coaster of life up, down, and sideways, with her hands to the sky, screaming, screaming, screaming. Joy, joy, joy, everything and nothing, all the beauty and grandeur, all the cringing and guffawing and knee-slapping of the world, come together and play on her TV. And ever ever, Rosie laughs.

 

     Rosie's face is Rosie pink. Rosie's skin is soft but thick, and Rosie's body is thin. Rosie's stride is strong, and Rosie's grip is firm. Her walk and talk from day to day depend upon the skin she might be in. The hole in Rosie's heart is big, but her skin, no matter what skin she's in, is enough to keep her outside out, and her inside in. Ever ever, Rosie is Rosie, and no other.

 

     Rosie is a girl. She rolls through meadows, staining her jeans without shame. She climbs the trees, and picks the ugliest, most beautiful reeds, and leans back with her arms spread wide to let God caress her with the wind. She tickles and punches and plays with her food. She jokes and somersaults and sticks out her tongue. She runs in the rain, and swings on the swings, just for the fun. Ever ever, Rosie is a girl.

 

     Rosie is a woman. Rosie smiles and bats her lashes and flips her hair around. She plays with fingers and gazes into eyes, and whispers sweet little love nothings into ears. She promises, and hears, and looks inside herself. She affirms, and reaffirms, and clasps her hands so tightly around shoulders. Rosie is sure, ever so sure, and Rosie loves to be sure. She kisses and caresses, Rosie blesses and curses. She makes love at noon, and makes love at midnight. She squeals and moans with passion. Rosie's orgasm shakes her bones. She holds her beloved in her arms at the faintest wisp of dawn, and brushes his cheek, and waits to fall asleep. She takes her time. She follows flights of fancy. She engages and marries, and of course, Rosie divorces. Ever ever, Rosie is a woman.

 

     Rosie is hard. Rosie plots and Rosie rages. She kicks and punches and stands up for herself. Because Rosie is a woman. A powerful woman. She insults and jabs, and holds the door open for herself. She takes charge and takes control, and leads the pack of wolves like an alpha. Rosie gives orders, and Rosie makes moves. She surges forward like Joan of Arc or Hera. Her hair whips back in the wind as she throws a lightning bolt. Rosie carries guns. Rosie carries knives. Rosie knows how to break arms and bust balls. Ever ever, Rosie is hard.

 

     Rosie is soft. Rosie gives and Rosie gives, and Rosie's flesh is torn. Rosie is bruised and beaten and left for dead. Rosie crawls along the tunnel, tattered and tired, and scrapes her face with jagged fingernails to remind her nerves they exist. The paneled glass of Rosie's soul is cracked, and cracked, and cracked, and finally shatters. And Rosie shatters, and her pieces scatter across the hall. And the pieces are carried by waves, and blown by tsunamis, and smashed by boots, and disappear. And Rosie finds her strength, and tracks them down, one by one, and puts it back together, like a dirty jigsaw, or an atom bomb to diffuse. And Rosie is perfect once again, but won't forget how to find it all in case it breaks again. Ever ever, Rosie is soft.

 

     Rosie feels. Rosie smokes and Rosie drinks. Rosie pops and Rosie shoots. Rosie makes the best of friends, and does the best of deeds. Rosie tries and tries, and ever ever, Rosie succeeds. Rosie makes art and does work, and Rosie is accomplished. Rosie crafts and guides and comforts and reassures, and pats the backs of men, and squeezes knees of women, and coaxes smiles from children. And Rosie feels alive.

 

     Rosie takes hits. Rosie guards and Rosie regrets. Rosie tries and tries, and ever ever, the heartless world succeeds. Rosie screams and throws her things, and tears her hair out with frustration. She breathes and sobs and prays and hopes and wishes, and ever ever the heartless world lets her down. And Rosie feels dead. Rosie empties her bottle and smokes it all up, and numbs and numbs but still could never feel more dead. Rosie puts the gun to her temple, the knife to her throat, and ever ever wants to end it all. But Rosie knows what Rosie is, and what she does, and what she can. And Rosie takes the blame, and Rosie bites the bullet, and treads down off the pillar, off the bridge, off the cliff. Ever ever, back and forth, Rosie feels.

 

     Rosie sits and Rosie reflects. Rosie thinks her thoughts, and feels her feels, and dreams her dreams. And Rosie is all of these things, ever ever, all at once. Because more than anything, Rosie is just Rosie, and no other. Ever.

 

     And ever ever, back and forth, up and down, in the darkest corner of the room, Rosie cries alone. Rosie needs what Rosie needs, whatever that may be. And no one knows, not even Rosie knows, and for what this means, and what she sees, and whatever Rosie feels and does and is, Rosie cries alone. Rosie calls out, and calls out. She crawls and crawls. She finds the phone again.

 

     Rosie calls. I answer.

 

    

    

Reviews

[PaperHearts]

I really loved this. Your story was very powerful and moving, and touching.
As the story progressed, my feelings and reactions and thoughts towards Rosie changed, and at the end, I felt like I had been on this whole journey with this character.
You conveyed the emotions beautifully, making this an extremely well-written, poignant piece.
I was captured by the essence of Rosie from the very start, and did not stop for one moment until I had reached the very end.
This piece has really made me think, smile, and want to cry, and I thank you for that. Well done,
~PaperHearts

[Lauren Marie]

That was beautiful.
At times I hated Rosie, and at times I loved her.
Sometimes I felt I was her.
You wonderfully conveyed emotions and weaved a many-sided character for us.
I loved the repitition as well.
This was a great piece, and I believe it will be in my library very soon.
Fabulous job!
~Lauren

[Nathan Noble]

This was a great idea. It really does read like a poem with great imagery. Incredible read and very enjoyable.

[Naomi Montana Walsh]

I feel that is this a a poem..it reads like a poem and though it is long ..it flows rhymically ..
call it prose or story or poem..I think it beautiful as it captures the complex creature that Rosie is and without judgement .