Who is she? Who is that girl with the ice blue eyes and frosted lips, the one whose words fall like velvet before the morning crashes and they awake from the dream, forgetting the wonder alongside her face, disappearing into the midst of that final school bell ringing. She falls, forgetting the hope of her own words and into the dismissal that they have placed upon her heart. Don’t they see it? There it was! That longing prose, those shattered fragments of her heart spread among the page like scattered drops of rain, running down and staining the white pages like falling tears, drenching the letters in her inky soul. Don’t they see it? There it is- its her, written up to reach their ears and touch them, not to notice, but to see. She reads out her heart, and exposes it, but that bell rings, that bell rings, and they get up, chattering busily about the nature of the materialistic aspects of their lives. Can’t they see? They’re leaving her there. They don’t see? They don’t’ see the floods of anger cascading out from her, that her whole essence before them has been awoken with the singular ping of a bell, shattering the illusion that was only the water, distorting her shape but there it was for them to see. But they get up, and as the red converse falls, so does her light, it darkens into the wastelands of eternal dismissal. Can’t they see? They’ve dismissed her soul. “Did you hear that?” He would whisper to his friend in the hallway as she crumples into herself, left with the black thorns of rejection. “It was beautiful.” And they would look at him in all their polluted surfaced space, and scoff. He’d seen, for a moment, the pure screaming silence of her love, and her being, laid out for him to hear and to understand, when everyone else had awoken as if from a simple daydream, back to the shallow pools of selfish obsession. But he would never let her know, for he was ashamed, ashamed, that he had seen her, naked in all entirety, and for he was ashamed of their looks and their smirks, for they were too close to the surface for him to realize that he’d seen deeper. So she would fall into the arms of despair and let them envelop her until she turned black and blue in the twilight, the deep shadows spreading like dark bruises under her skin, invisible for all to see beneath her pale façade. For she had spoken, screaming, and the bell had broken their forced attention. And she would never know anyone had raised the walls of their selves and looked back into her eyes. Don’t they see it?
Who is she?
May 22, 2009