She doesn’t smile. Not really. You can’t see it here, but she has the most cynical dark, almond eyes, from far too many long nights. They should be encircled by indistinct shadows of gray, in a sharp dissimilarity from her moon colored face, but close in comparison with her hollow cheeks- but they aren’t. Her façade is ivory and pink frost, and her cheeks and nose have been painted like roses.
Her eyes- they’re antediluvian. They’ve seen so much and reflect so much more. They’re so earnest and dear and anyone who looks into them feels his hands grow damp and icy and every bit of arbitrary loathing he has for anything wane away. No matter how good she thinks she is at hiding, the dewdrops in the corners of those eyes are loud, boxed in by rad glasses. They’re unequivocally and agonizingly lost and crestfallen, and they scream, at all times of the day, at everyone looking her way, YOU ALL MAKE ME WANT TO PULL OUT MY TEETH. I listen.
Her name is sweet and florid, but it belongs to a sullen, absent girl. I keep telling myself I won’t call her by her name. I loathe her. She is my best friend who hates all her friends and keeps shoving everyone away and then bringing them close and I hate it. But it’s hard to really hate your best friend.
Her nails are painted with black. She’s painted all her armor with flowers and her hair is stick straight- wind chimes that blow to the will of the wind, but now she’s tarnished and her seams have split.
You can see it here, her sinewy arms bent and a muggy, hot white mug blistering her fingers while she stares absently into rectangle after rectangle on a rectangular screen; coal and navy shirt and sweatpants slack and hanging from her shoulders and knees, like clammy rags from corroded steel clamps along plaited copper wires.
She’s smiling but it’s a learnt smile, because she’s posing for my itching lens.
She is shadow bound- tragedy bound- and the obscurities that tug at her from each direction are especially apparent right behind her back.
She’s so well acquainted with the dark that overwhelms her, but now- now, while she poses, mocks interest in the pop-up conversations marking the screen- her pseudo smile looks almost sincere.
She’s at my house, and we’ve annexed my older brother’s room. It’s a sleepover. She brings her guitar and makeup and laptop and sticky hair products; a sleeping bag; a smile.
She can tolerate me. That’s all it is, I think: tolerance. She can stand being around me more than the other kids who bestow upon themselves the title of ‘her best friend’. I’m not sure I’m proud of being tolerated, but in the moment I stole this shot, I was.
In the moment, she’s on her laptop, typing a thousand keystrokes a minute, sticking out her tongue and turning her head when I try to take a decent picture with a more-than-decent camera. I can’t waste a shot. Not with film.
She finally lets her guard down while she drinks a flowering tea. I lift my camera and wind and focus and snap the shot judiciously and set the camera where it’s too high for her to reach it.
Later in the night, the photo apparatus rests around my collar again, on a Mickey Mouse strap, and she is wound up in her zipped sleeping bag, crawling around the room, ramming into bedroom furniture, shouting polite profanities, and laughing, “You’ll never take me alive.”
I resign after a long while and when she sticks her head up out of the sack, I snap another shot, her smile joyful, real; a white light.
The developed photo turns out too dark.
Her eyes- they’re antediluvian. They’ve seen so much and reflect so much more. They’re so earnest and dear and anyone who looks into them feels his hands grow damp and icy and every bit of arbitrary loathing he has for anything wane away. No matter how good she thinks she is at hiding, the dewdrops in the corners of those eyes are loud, boxed in by rad glasses. They’re unequivocally and agonizingly lost and crestfallen, and they scream, at all times of the day, at everyone looking her way, YOU ALL MAKE ME WANT TO PULL OUT MY TEETH. I listen.
Her name is sweet and florid, but it belongs to a sullen, absent girl. I keep telling myself I won’t call her by her name. I loathe her. She is my best friend who hates all her friends and keeps shoving everyone away and then bringing them close and I hate it. But it’s hard to really hate your best friend.
Her nails are painted with black. She’s painted all her armor with flowers and her hair is stick straight- wind chimes that blow to the will of the wind, but now she’s tarnished and her seams have split.
You can see it here, her sinewy arms bent and a muggy, hot white mug blistering her fingers while she stares absently into rectangle after rectangle on a rectangular screen; coal and navy shirt and sweatpants slack and hanging from her shoulders and knees, like clammy rags from corroded steel clamps along plaited copper wires.
She’s smiling but it’s a learnt smile, because she’s posing for my itching lens.
She is shadow bound- tragedy bound- and the obscurities that tug at her from each direction are especially apparent right behind her back.
She’s so well acquainted with the dark that overwhelms her, but now- now, while she poses, mocks interest in the pop-up conversations marking the screen- her pseudo smile looks almost sincere.
She’s at my house, and we’ve annexed my older brother’s room. It’s a sleepover. She brings her guitar and makeup and laptop and sticky hair products; a sleeping bag; a smile.
She can tolerate me. That’s all it is, I think: tolerance. She can stand being around me more than the other kids who bestow upon themselves the title of ‘her best friend’. I’m not sure I’m proud of being tolerated, but in the moment I stole this shot, I was.
In the moment, she’s on her laptop, typing a thousand keystrokes a minute, sticking out her tongue and turning her head when I try to take a decent picture with a more-than-decent camera. I can’t waste a shot. Not with film.
She finally lets her guard down while she drinks a flowering tea. I lift my camera and wind and focus and snap the shot judiciously and set the camera where it’s too high for her to reach it.
Later in the night, the photo apparatus rests around my collar again, on a Mickey Mouse strap, and she is wound up in her zipped sleeping bag, crawling around the room, ramming into bedroom furniture, shouting polite profanities, and laughing, “You’ll never take me alive.”
I resign after a long while and when she sticks her head up out of the sack, I snap another shot, her smile joyful, real; a white light.
The developed photo turns out too dark.
Post a Comment
Be the first to comment on this article!