Love Her Anyways
An old friend.
Take this girl and glitter her face before the spring dance. I do things with her that I would rather not speak about with my parents. That penned drawing on the back of the shed is ours, and every time I see her mom I am acutely aware she does not do things the way mine does. I am not the type of child who envies her ‘freedom’ (I know that she is in more of a cage than I ever will be).
I watch her, nine with the face of six, rock that baby back and forth and back and forth. Not hers, but hers.
How could I have ever saved her?
Think about the time I was playing in the lot and she opened my face straight up. Think about her calling me an ugly cunt before I even knew what that meant. Think about her sitting me down and forcing me to watch that video that scared me sleepless, laughing about it. Think about the days that she decided she was bored of me, so she sat there speaking to other people, acting like she couldn’t hear me at all no matter how I yelled and plead to her face (that was always popular, something other kids joined in on, it was fun to create their own ghost, wasn’t it?).
Love her anyways.
People will ask me why I do. I will conjure ideas of glitter glue garbage bag dresses and fake seances and sharpie tattoos. Even when I move away, I will think of her.
It feels like having the flu.