What They Saw

She was a walking nervous habit.
Her knuckles begged her to stop popping them every five seconds.
The inside of her lip was constantly sore from incessant chewing.
The bounce of her knee made her thigh muscles ache for relief.
But there was no stopping it.
Nothing could keep her from clicking her pen.
Or from popping her neck.
Or from twisting her earrings.
Or from shaking out her bangs with her fingers.
Or from twisting sections of hair around her fingers.
They made her look fidgety, her nervous habits.
They didn't convey the nausea in her stomach.
Or the weight settled on her chest that made it hard to breathe.
She just seemed to have a lot of energy.
She seemed incapable of sitting still.
Which was another problem she absolutely faced, but it had nothing to do with the nerves.
They were two separate problems that seemed to manifest themselves in similar ways.
She could deal with excess energy.
She could laugh louder.
Talk more.
Hum.
But the nerves, the anxiety, that was a different story.
It was hard to control.
Hard to stop.
Hard to let out without looking crazy.
So she let them think she was overly energetic.
That she liked to fuss with her hair.
That the wide-eyed look on her face was normal and she was surprised by everything.
She didn't show them it was terror.
She didn't let on that her body was reacting without her consent.
Reacting to an emotion she didn't condone.
So she became the fidgety girl, the girl who laughed too loud and talked too much and played with her hair all the time.
As long as they didn't see the panic, that was okay with her.

Watching Her Walk

He stepped back into the shadows when he saw her across the grass.  He stood in solitude watching her walk.  She seemed so different than the girl he thought he knew.  Her eyes darted up from the ground for the briefest of seconds before snapping back down.  She seemed to be trying to shrink as she moved.  She wrung the raincoat in her hands nervously. 
That was it, she was nervous.  She wrapped the grey material up only to unravel it and fold it up again.  She switched if from her left arm to her right and back again.  He had never seen her this way, so fidgety and timid.  He sighed as she passed him still several yards away, turning to follow her with his eyes. 
Who was this girl?  What happened to her?  What happened to his girl?  He wasn't used to this side of her.  To seeing her look fragile, like an anxious baby deer.  He was accustomed to her rough edges, not her softness.  He was used to a sharp tongue and bright, questioning eyes, not silence and wide eyed fear.  Something in the way she moved intrigued him, so much so that he nearly called out to her.  But indecision took it's toll.  He hesitated one moment too long, wondering if she would smile at seeing him or weather her lips would turn down.  He wouldn't want that.  No, he wouldn't want that at all.  She fell out of his view but stayed at the forefront of his mind.  Why were the two girls so different?  Which one was authentic?  Where had her sass and sarcasm been just then?  And where was her doe-eyed innocence when he was around her?

Fragile Stitches

She spent years sewing herself back together.

 

All the words and all the lies, tearing out the fragile stitches.

 

She found stronger thread in creativity and confidence, but while the former was authentic, the later was entirely feigned.

 

No one would have know how frail the stitches were, except for her as they ripped.

 

But jealous gestures frayed the ropes and she began to fall apart again. 

3, 2, 1

I count down the minutes.
30. 29. 28.
Please be here.
27. 26. 25.
I'll get to see you, for just a moment.
24. 23. 22.
Will your eye catch mine?
21. 20. 19.
It never does, why should this be different?
18. 17. 16.
And yet I let myself hope.
15. 14. 13.
It's closer now and the ball of anxiety is my stomach is tight.
12. 11. 10.
The nerves threaten to take over.
9. 8. 7.
I'm in my place.
6. 5. 4.
I'm waiting. Waiting. Please come.
3. 2. 1.

A Representative of Prince Charming

Through a haze of tawny, sun-bleached hair, she watched him without his knowledge as she laughed.  He was watching her and her friend inconspicuously.  The gentle smile on his face suggested that the light-hearted, tinkling laugh bubbling from her mouth was the source of his quiet smile; her laugh pulling at the edge of his own.  With a frantic pounding in her chest, she looked away, afraid of being caught.  The room grew more and more quiet, the test began, but the look on his face stayed in her mind.

His hazel eyes crinkling at the corners, the arch of his eyebrow, the gentle smile that dared to stretch into something like a mischievous grin.  She was sure it was meant for her.  For her snorting, chuckling laugh.  For her happiness.  Despite her inclination to doubt, she let herself dream that her laughter elicited the same nervous tingle in his chest as his rumbling voice did in hers.  He was exactly what she wanted.  Exactly what she needed.  Exactly what she didn't expect to find.  His clean cut suits and sweaters along with his dazzling smile made her weak at the knee.  But what really held her captive, what really made her mind wander back to him every few minutes, was his sarcastic wit.
She had been told she wasn't gentle enough as a girl.  That her sarcasm and cynicism were intimidating.  But he didn't seem to notice.  For every action of hers, he had a remark and she had a witty reply.  The shot meaningless insults and wily retorts back and forth like bottle rockets.
For every stray though she let slip from her lips, he had a joke to which she was ready to respond.  He initiated most of their repertoire, but some days she felt brave enough to start it herself.  Their energy was, to her at least, magnetic.  When they were on a roll arguing or invalidating one another the rest of the world ceased to exist.  She never knew that friendly fire could rekindle that feeling that she had thus far attributed to inevitable heartbreak.

Through everything, the grief, the ache in her chest, the jaded mindset, she swore she wouldn't fall so easily.  One look would never change her future, she vowed.
What she didn't plan for though, fell into her lap without her consent.  Like-minded friendship, easy conversation, laughter, the unfamiliar feeling of acceptance, all descended on her in one large wave.  It all came down, drowning her in refreshing, blissful waves of exhilaration.  That was how things needed to be.  And with all the new, he snuck in quietly with a friendly challenge of intellect and a look.

Lord, that look.  That look tore her apart.  It was like he was trying to see through her and into her soul, into the inside of her mind.  Like he was slowly, gently taking her apart just to see how all the pieces fit back together.  It was a feeling that terrified her and intrigued her at the same time.  She was scared that he might actually see through her and find the betrayal, the heartache and the loss and the fear that created her cocktail of bitterness and sarcasm.  But at the same time, she was flattered he bothered to look at her at all.

For as "intimidating" as they said she was, he showed no signs of backing down from her challenge.  When their eyes locked, he never looked away first.  He met her embarrassed gaze with a steady stare.  Neither could be blamed as the habitual starter of their staring contests, for both of them started in equal parts.  It hardly seemed though that their interactions which were so glaringly obvious to her even registered in the minds of those around them.  Is it all imagined then?  She wondered quietly.

No little princess, keep fighting.  I think you've finally found prince charming, and if not him, then a representative of his court, coming to guide you home to his arms.

Dripping Drops

She'd never been on this side of it before.

The first time, she was the one dripping drops of sunshine in between the cracks of someone's blacked, broken soul.
He hadn't wanted it, but she didn't realize that.
All she knew was that her heart ached for how dark he had become.
All she wanted was to help.
But where she saw herself descending like an angel to rescue him, he saw a pesky mosquito and tried to swat her out of his smoggy sky.

She dodged the blows, misreading them as emotional defense, not legitimate dismissal.
But when he connected, it was a devastating blow.
She came crashing out of the sky and shattered like a porcelain doll on the solid rock of reality.
She tried so hard to pretend there weren't huge chunks of her missing, but she could only fake so long before she started emulating him.
She grew her own dark cloud.
It wasn't black and impenetrable like his, just a light grey that deepened quickly to charcoal through the trials of life.

She was tinting on black when he found her.
A different "he" than the one who broke her.
A "he" that was destined to fix a broken heart.
He swept in abruptly, distracting her long enough for the cloud to fade a few shades.
The look he gave her, that questioning, puzzled gaze that made her heart speed up and color rush to her cheeks, was unsettling.
She could tell that he could see the cracks.
One quick witted retort at a time, sarcastic comment by sarcastic comment, he began dripping drops of sunshine in between the cracks, like she had done for a doomed soul once before.

But she was different.
She didn't swat him out of her sky.
She craved ardently the shining liquid of hope that he seemed to be drenched in.
Slowly, as the drops he gave her began to add up, her cloud faded, until it dissipated entirely.
When that day came, she tested out her feet.
They were shaky after being on her knees for so long, but he slid his arm around her and held her up.
And when she was strong enough, she tested out her wings without a fear of falling, because he never left her side.

Two Fatal Blows

Words were launched, sharp like arrows, aimed to kill.
Volley after volley, blotting out the sun, blackening the sky.
Each one found its mark, severing arteries, tearing flesh, spilling blood.
She shot with accuracy, never missing a beat.
He aimed at random but his sporadic shots caught vital organs.

Their armor was as useless as mist, hardly deflecting a breath.
The ground was bright red.
The air hinted of decay.
There would be no winner at the end of this war.

When they called off their firing, when the smoke from the battle cleared, no victory was found.
Only two broken beings, slashed and ripped apart, falling to their knees in agony.
The death of what lay between them wasn't easy.
It was long.
It was torture.
It ripped out their hearts.
It smothered their cries.

But neither warrior breathed a hint of remorse.
They both felt the righteousness of their call to battle.
They both felt the other in the wrong.
Their war was swift.
Their war was brutal.
And their war was one from which no allies could hope to be recovered.

They thought it was a battle to the death,
but they were fighting Death all along,
and it was not in Death's nature to be overthrown.
And in the end, it dealt two fatal blows.

The Monstrous Beast

She paces anxiously.
Its going to be a long day with all these nerves.  Nerves over nothing and everything all at once.
She slides her long locks into a ponytail in record time.  The tale-tale sign of her all time high stress.
She paints on the black kohl liner and layers of black mascara.  War paint.  War with no one.  War with herself.
She pops the collar of her black leather jacket and sucks in a deep breath.  The hot pink and turquoise and violet call from her closet.
No.  Stick to Black.  Black is strong.  Black is safe.  She chides her ridiculous imagination.
Black helps her fight.  It helps her come off strong, the ever impenetrable fortress of bitterness and thorns.
But really, it just gives her a way out.  A way out of making the choices that color would make imperative.
The darkness does its job, hiding her from sight, bubbling around her like a poison and forcing them away.
If they're scared, they wont try to get in.
She struts across the pavement, her signature walk screaming of confidence and intensity and made up of lie after lie.
The anxiety expands, sucking her breath and thought and threatening to revisit her minuscule breakfast.
She acts fast, using a learned tactic to combat the nausea.
1,2,3,4,5,6,7,8.  1,2,3,4,5,6,7,8.  She counts in her head to the imaginary music her feet pound out on the sidewalk.
Focus on the numbers and the anxiety can't take complete control.
A passing girls laugh catches her mid number and steals her attention.
What would that be like?
To walk and laugh and talk without headache inducing nausea and shortness of breath?
To trade inside jokes with friends and act like a kid and not care who sees?
What would it be like if you weren't worried what everyone was thinking of you all the time?
If you could walk into a room with a chest full of air and not be paranoid that people are talking about you?
She tries the trick she read online.  Four counts breathing in, and eight counts out.  The pain in her chest goes away. 
No use dwelling on 'what if' while reality gnaws a whole in your stomach.  She reminds herself as the thoughts float away, leaving the monstrous beast of fear and panic settled behind her navel.

One day, I'll know what it's like to wave goodbye to the beast.

Dandelions and Stars

I wish you could see yourself through my eyes.
How breath-taking you are when you smile.
How earth-shattering the sound of your laugh is.
How nerve-wracking your gaze is.

I wish you could see me the way I see you.
As a ray of hope.
As a future.
As a promise that better things are yet to come.

I wish I could be blatantly honest with you,
and tell you how amazing you are.
Tell you how your name sets off butterflies in my stomach.
Tell you how I dream of a life of you and me.

I wish I had met you six years ago.
I wish I hadn't skipped that first semester.
I wish you had walked into my life earlier.
I wish I had more time to spend with you.

But I suppose blowing on dandelions and wishing on stars will have to do for now, and when I see you again, maybe things will be different.  And maybe I'll get to do a little more thanking and a little less wishing.

You Taught Me

You taught me well without even knowing.
You showed me the cruelest moments of life without lifting a finger.
I learned how to love.
How to be inexplicably enamored and infatuated.
I learned what it's like to live a cliché.
To be the princess who falls for the villain.
To be the damsel in distress.
I learned, from you, how to lose myself in someone else.
To be so infatuated by someone else's power and intrigue that I forget to live my own life.
I learned to be blind to the truths spilling from the mouths of those around me.
To shut my mind and ignore and push away and fight whoever spoke against your name.
I learned so much from you.
I learned what heartache felt like.
How nothing seems to matter except for you walking away from me and the ever widening hole in my chest.
I learned how to grieve for someone that never died.
The body wracking sobs and gasps for air, praying that the aching would end. Suffocating in a pillow to muffle the sound of broken wails.
I learned how to live in a black cloud.
To bundle up in many blankets trying to keep the shivers at bay.
To stop eating when everything tastes like ash.
To hold the tears on the brink and not let them fall when people are around.
I learned not to get my hopes up because I'll always be left in the end.
Not to hope.
Not to dream.
Not to envision a future with anyone.
And when I ignore those little lessons you taught me, when I try and follow my heart, I end up here again. Holding back the tears. Choking on my questions. Spinning like a top in a whirlwind of confusion. Asking, how did this happen? What did I do to deserve this? Why was I so stupid?
Thank you for your lessons. For all the little gems of knowledge I acquired through your use of me. Maybe next time I'll be smart enough to listen to them.

Reaching The Top

Nothing about him came softly.
Not quiet, serene, or gentle.
Not unassuming or calm or mild.
He blew in, a boisterous wind that gave you little choice but to pay attention.
And as soon as she looked, she was entranced.
Gone, like Alice down the rabbit hole, lost to a world of whimsical imagination and him, him, him.
In every action, every word, every thought, there he was smiling, joking, laughing, capturing her heart without the slightest clue.
He was a good thing for her, in that way.
He taught her that butterflies really could be a good thing.
That smitten was in no way an outdated word.
That fairy tales were alive and well and playing out in her world. She looked at him with feelings that had long been absent from her heart.
With hope and promise.
With giddy excitement and nervous giggles.
With true joy.
He was her summer breeze.
Her fresh air.
Her change of scenery.
And that sliver of hope, with it's peculiar strength held firm through doubt and fear and angry words. While everyone doubted, she yet hoped.
Because she knew as they didn't the way his eyes constantly searched her face, watching for a smile or some envoy of friendship.
She knew as they did not the nervous glances exchanged between the two.
She saw in him the promise they refused to see in the world and she let it fill her up.
Bursting with nerves and smiles and pent up exhilaration, she set her sights on that impossibly high peak of joy, certain for some reason that he could aid her in the journey.
And she found solace in the idea of resting beside him when they reached the top.

Watching the World Wake Up

She liked to watch the world wake up.
As the silence gave way to the slow drip of the faucet and the shower.
And the floor boards begin to creak.
And the gentle chirping of one lone bird fading into two and then three and then all of them together in a beautiful morning symphony.
As the streetlights click off and hand over luminescent power to the rising sun.
And the sky fades from black to hues of yellow and orange and finally to blue.
And the free freeway comes to life, humming and buzzing and beeping.
And the promised morrow at last puts the deep night to sleep.

All He Needed

She watched him walking away as her heart sank to her toes.  She couldn't let it end like this.  His words still burning her mind were heavy on her chest. 
I just want to hear you say yes.  Say you trust me.
"Wait!"  She cried.  The tears staining the sweatshirt that was suffocating her dotted the fabric in a dismal pattern of pain.  The clouds parted and the earth stopped spinning as he turned around.  Did she mean it?  Could she try to let him put the pieces back together.
"Please, I'm just scared."  She whispered.
Those blue eyes cut into her soul to a depth no other human had found.  How could he still love her when she let him see it all?  When he saw all of her issues, he'd be sure to leave.  But until he left, she couldn't let him walk away wanting her and thinking she didn't want him.  Time slowed as he crossed the space between them and his hands were on her elbows.
"Trust me.  Just say you trust me."  He whispered, searching her eyes for some hint of hopeful truth.
"I can try."
And that was all he needed.
He crushed her to his chest, the girl with the dazzling smile and the ocean colored eyes.  His whole world was in his arms and never in his life had he felt more scared or more sure of anything he'd ever done.  He could put her back together, even though she was beautiful in all her broken pieces.  All she ever wanted was to be whole again, and if it took him forever, that was what he was going to do.

He and Me

He was more than a person.
He was an experience.
He was a phenomenon.

He walked into a room and caught every eye, turned every head.
His easy smile was contagious.
His genuine interest made you feel like one in a million.

He was bliss.
He was perfection.

And every step he took, brought him closer to me.

 

And by some chance, some miracle of heaven, we became one.

We were unstoppable.

We were a force to be reckoned with.

 

He smoothed out my roughness.

He eased my ferocity.

He was the calm to my crazy and everything about him made sense to me.

 

We had a glow like fire.

Catching the light and spinning it around the walls.

We were magnificent.

 

Everything in our world was picturesque.

Nothing out of place, not a single smudge on our perfect white.

And for those few moments, however fleeting they were, we existed in complete impeccability.

Painted Glass

She used to be see through,

The glass girl in the shadows.

 

Fragile and delicate with a smile that held a universe of stars

was planted on her face.

 

She was easy to read.  Her personality was always on display,

until one day they brought the paint.

 

A drop from a word here,

A dab from a sneer there.

And drop by drop they painted the glass dark.

 

No colors but red and black, the colors of pain.

Blocking out any clear spots that showed the brightness of the day.

 

And over time, she accepted the paint.

She stopped trying to wipe it off.

Stopped trying to wash it away.

Until all she was, was a mess of black and red paint.