The Beauty of Defeat

I look into the face of the woman staring at me.
She is me.
I see dark bags under her eyes.
Blacks and blues, purples mixed with pinks.
I study her wrinkles.
The deep creases in her face seem to show all her past hardships.
I observe her pale, pale pink lips.
They are not any rosier than the pallid roses you give to a mother with a newborn baby girl.
In her lips, you can slightly see the bright scarlet hue of her adolescence.
They used to call her “Poppy” because of her naturally crimson lips.
I notice her tissue-paper skin that she tried so hard to keep firm.
Her skin is defeat.
It hangs unbound from her high cheekbones.
But then, I behold her eyes.
The same eyes that once made men fall to their knees, begging for mercy.
They are blue-green, like a Tiffany box.
Her eyes still sparkle with youthful energy.
In those turquoise orbs, you can see her entire life.

She is beautiful.

The End of Something

"Isn't love any fun?"
-The End of Something (Hemingway)

It was irrational, to say the least.
You were much older-eight years older, to be exact.
I was but thirteen.
You walked into the room, and I knew.
Oh yes, I knew.
This was only the beginning.
You approached me, flirted with me.

You knew how old I was.

I flirted right on back.
With you.
With the idea of me being with you.
It all started out with a harmless crush; a schoolgirl infatuation.
But it soon turned into something more, something dangerous.
Danger.
It was so alluring.
You, being the literary type, compared us to Romeo and Juliet.
Forbidden love.
I, being a teenager, compared us to Edward and Bella.
Someone was going to get hurt, and we both knew it would be you.
But we were living foolishly in the moment.
A few precarious months passed by.
We drank.
Smoked.
Loved.
But a colleague of yours caught us in the hallway.
You were fired.
I was suspended.

Six months after you left, I began seeing someone.
He was great.
Kind.
Gentle.
Not too smart.
Most importantly, nothing like you.
It was time to let go of you.
We had e-mailing back and forth for a couple months.
Our now platonic relationship had grown awkward, like the first time you kissed me.
You smelled like must and tasted like cigarettes.
You tasted older.
And that was the first time I realized how very wrong this was.

I am officially ending it with you, ex-lover.
Too many nights have been spent crying over you, thinking of the cheap beer you kept in your fridge.
I would never drink that beer.
It was too stale, like how our relationship had grown.
Insipid.
Tiresome.
Familiar.
So goodbye.

Goodbye.

An Ode to You, Little Girl

I’ve noticed a change in you, best friend.
A change for the worse.
Gone are the days of being carefree; they have been replaced with worries.
I always imagined you as an ethereal being, floating thoughtlessly on light pink cloud.
My mind has been poisoned with images of tears and rain clouds and black, black nights.
I worry for you, best friend.
Optimism was what first made me love you as I do.
But now your pessimism is distressing me.
Of course, I only want the best for you, little girl.
Although I may not act like it, you are, to put it simply, one of the most incredible people I have ever met.
You are strong.
Wise.
Scintillating.
If any of that changed, love… I’m not sure what I would do with myself.
Sure, it is not any of my business what you do.
But in a way, it is.
It is like I have a precautionary shield that is surrounding you and me, protecting us from any harm that comes our way.
See, we aren’t like other people, you and me.
We are what they call “unique.”
I call it weird.
We sing and laugh in the streets.
Obsess over the strangest things.
Listen to the most eccentric music.
To put it lightly, you are the only one who is even a bit like me.

So, best friend.
What have we learned here?
I:
Love you.
Admire you.
Am proud of you.
Worry for you.
And finally, most importantly, I miss you… the real you.

Rebel With(out) a Cause

People don’t seem to understand that I honestly don’t give a fuck.
Some people say “they don’t care what people think of them”.
I scoff at those people.
Yes, you do. You wouldn’t say that if you didn’t care.
You act like you have this carefree attitude; you listen to indie music, act like a rebel.
But I know the truth.
This is all just a masquerade.
The truth is, you are nothing like the façade you put on.
At night, when you are sitting alone in your room, you will put on some of the newest, most mainstream music.
When your parents (who you feign hatred for) call you down for dinner, you shall eat all your vegetables and thank them and God (who you also feign hatred for, much to the delight of your parents) for this wonderful meal.
This is all well and good; you should love your parents and God (if they suit you).
But don’t pretend.
It is despicable.

I’ll say it again.
I don’t give a fuck.
Not caring doesn’t mean that I hate my parents or anyone else, for that matter.
People’s adverse opinions don’t have any negative consequence to me.
I hear the words under their breath.
Pretty face, ugly body.
Stupid.
Bitch.
Fat.
Theoretically speaking, these people think they are hurting me.
Ha.
I’ve been hurt before, and I’ll be hurt again.
Over the years, I’ve grown a protective shell towards these words.
So I cannot hurt anymore.
When I hear the mutters of some bigot, I just smile to myself and walk on by.
At least I know that one day they will see.
I will rise above the masses and become the beautiful butterfly that I know I am.
My iridescent colors will glow.
But for now, I’m stuck in my cocoon.
So keep the words coming.
I have steadfast armor.

Butterflies

She put her pencil down. The blond hair that once shone brightly in the sunlight glinted faintly from the glow of the industrial lights.

Memories of the summer danced around in her head, taunting her with the bliss of ignorance. How simple life was then. She remembered bonfires on the beach, the stale taste of beer on his tongue; fireflies illuminating the night. The never ending feeling of no tomorrow. No schoolwork, no drama, no parents. Just... life. There was nothing but life in store for her. Waking up at noon, spending the day with him on the beach. His slender fingers tapping light patterns onto her flat, tan stomach. Letting the cool, sea breeze brush across their hot skin, offering relief from the warm summer day. Her hair would slightly knot, the eyeliner would smudge below her eyes. Soft kisses, light as butterflies wings, would be exchanged under the pale moonlight that night, the fire burning bright and red in the background.

But all good things must soon come to an end. Two wonderful months together had come and gone, and all it ended with was a quick kiss and a wave from a ferry. Back to their lives they went. The surreality was over.