the silver hoop resting in the cartilage of her right ear, the bright overhead light bouncing off of the metal and reverberating right into her brain, making her remember that she was afraid of needles. it’s funny how people tend to do things that scare them.
dirty blonde hair, curious caramel eyes, always smiling with the award-winning overbite. scents of tropical flowers and coconut envelope her, the epitome of a warped hourglass with a heart that is sometimes too big for her own good. but nobody seems to look deeper. dig a little more, and see her for that pure golden soul she cherishes so dearly. did you know she doesn’t ask for anything but books for Christmas? or what about how going on long drives as the sun sets is the thing that makes her feel most alive?
the funeral she dreaded going to for a month, gripping her best friend’s hand like everything depended on it as she stared at the corpse lifelessly laying in the cushioned coffin. she remembered then how that cold body was once warm with sunlight and love, and she cried. she cursed God for making it so easy for people to disappear, and suddenly wondered if there was even such a thing as the afterlife.
the sickening crunch of the silver truck slamming into the stalling car in the middle of the road during a blizzard, then spiraling like figure skaters into a ditch. sitting shakily in the backseat as words failed her, she figured this was karma for questioning His existence in the first place.
the Dead Sea of sweaty bodies. she sipped on a drink that only made her nauseous, underneath flashing strobe lights that could probably induce a seizure, surrounded by people who couldn’t care less about her well- being. she wanted to talk about astrology and classic literature and alternative music, but nobody appreciates anything anymore. the bass drowned out any means of conversation anyways, so what was the point of actually getting to know someone when you could just reach for them without words…right?
the mind that was from another planet, her alien specimen of a brain that was more inviting than reality. always living between the lines of other people’s stories and never finishing her own, she resides inside her own head. she fantasizes about a life outside of student loans, minimum wage jobs, and annotated bibliographies. she dreams of rainy afternoons in London, sitting in cafes and libraries, writing until she can’t anymore.
she was there, now.
she just had to close her eyes and think about it.