Hidden in her words and eyes is a wall that’s cold and ugly.
I pick at the ladders climbing up and down my tights.
I pretend no one else is around, and the longer I think they’re not, they’re can’t be. They can’t be there if I say they aren’t: they are just molecules, ugly, misplaced molecules, atoms and bubbling energy. Not people. People are ugly.
I think about the concept of permanence. What I’m doing to these tights is permanent, I guess. Why is it that pain is what we always consider permanent? Why isn’t our happiness a permanent mark on our souls, but our sorrows are?
I try to think of happy memories, and my thoughts follow accordingly. Flashes of experiences much unlike my life now fill my mind’s eye. Experiences that made me smile. Experiences with friends. Experiences that made me feel… whole.
I grab my things, lock myself in the bathroom, and carve my sorrows into my skin —permanently.
