She’s telling her friends they don’t need men to feel like women. That if they could love others and let that love overflow until they loved themselves, that that would be enough. She says they don’t have to only love their bodies so somebody else will. But she’s the girl who went back to the same boy because she thought his love was worth more than hers. And that anyone willing to love her was worth it.
She’s giving and giving and giving. And when she sits alone in her room with nothing left, she asks herself why she does it. But she doesn’t know why. She’s not selfish; she’s not doing it to be loved in return. But everyone is a flower and she is a gardener.
She’s dreaming about the future. And she’ll admit, she doesn’t know what it looks like yet. But she has a pinterest board with her goals. So far it has small apartments with mattresses and no bed frames, short haired cats with big eyes, and tattoos she’ll get when she’s older and maybe a little braver.
The Disco Queen
She’s in love with another time. I belong in the seventies, she says. She’s the double bubble disco queen. But she can’t rollerblade for shit.
She’s always down for a long drive, listening to music that takes her somewhere else, sometimes forward, sometimes back.
She’s making jokes about herself again. But they’re actually kind of funny. She likes the ones that are sort of depressing. Maybe she finds them relatable. She can’t help that she has a dark sense of humor.
She’s going a little too hard. A little too drunk, she stumbles around. Oops, she thinks. But it’s not the first time this has happened, and it’s not the last time she’ll tell herself that. She knows she’s walking the line. It could get worse from here; it probably will. She almost wishes someone would tell her to stop, but she doesn’t know if she can. She’s scared.
She’s started biting her nails. If her mom knew she’d make her cut them. But her mom doesn’t know. And she hasn’t decided if she cares or not. She’s already at the stubs.
She’s sinking further into the couch, her leg going numb from the weight of his head. She smiles to herself and lays still; she doesn’t want to wake him. Their palms are sweaty from holding each other for so long, but she doesn’t let go. Maybe this is what her mom told her about.
She’s over the moon about sunsets. She’s pointing them out to other people. She’s always taking pictures of them. She’s afraid to forget them. There’s something beautiful about things that don’t last.
She’s falling asleep. One leg outside the covers, the other tucked away, she’s about to dream. When she was a kid, she pretended her bed was floating in the ocean, taking her somewhere else, as someone else. She could lie there for hours, covers pulled up to her chin, toes kissing the cold sea air.
She’s looking forward. She’s building a house where the walls hold her together, but the windows let the light in. Where the floor is sturdier than the last and the stairs really do take her somewhere. The door helps her say hello, and goodbye. She is building her life.
Fall, 2019 Issue