Thursday, June 8
She sits, shivering slightly in the synthetic cold. The trembling is almost uncontrollable, but she seeks it, drinking eagerly from a chilled white mug with green umbrella trees on it. The foggy rain falls unheeded, locked out by double-glazed windows and steel grilles. She hates humidity.
She's sprayed flower fragrances liberally all over the room in an attempt to mask the smell of the mug's contents, but still she worries that someone might open the drawer and find her secret stash. There is a cold heat growing like a grape vine within her belly, and a pounding migraine at her temples. She wishes she could transfer her thoughts, anxieties and hopes like an electric current, flowing seamlessly from one mind to another. Or ought it be one soul to another? She is unsure, she is already succumbing to its sweet doubts. Words are clumsy, wooden and stiff, bounded by definitions that attempt to capture ideas within their nets, but let the tiny unspoken guppies of dreams through. She wishes she could paint, but crayons break in her hand. Music frustrates her; she cannot attain the perfection of expression that betrays vulnerability. Words, words. She's sworn off them, and lies instead, drawing pictures on her skin with red ink and sipping unidentified liquids. She smiles, a cheery, seemingly unguarded and delighted smile, and laughs hard enough to fall off her chair, but the red pictures go on dancing over her legs. Another bottle, another pouring of apple-juice fluids splashing gleefully over ice.
She wishes, afterall.
yours truly
12:10 PM
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xoxo
