Southern Snow

November 10, 2009
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We were both born on Thursdays; neither of us born with any innocence. You are triumphant in your knowledge of the world and me – I love faking it. I am the sad girl still playing dress-up as a teenager. The stereotype of crazy and my diagnosis of bi-polar fit me well. You told me I was chaos and I always tell anyone that will listen that love is supposed to be a roller coaster. So in the future when we grow up and watch the lights dim behind our friend’s eyes we will get to sit back and laugh. Because you never had a light and I have one that will never go out.

She had the kind of aura that blinded you, but did not make you notice anything. I doubt it was even all that visible before you. I like to come up behind her and kiss her hair because it scared her, but a second before she realized it was me her innocence would show. It was like catching someone in the shower rushed, exciting, and secret. I got a kick out of teasing it, making it come out to play until you made me hate it.

I want to pretend that I am stronger than I am. As if I didn’t notice the way she wouldn’t look me in the eyes, or how much her light had changed. I want to pretend that I didn’t shallow handfuls of pills trying to block out the image of her light in your eyes. She became nothing special while my light, my artificial, electric, fake, neon light was burning, burning bright.

I was trying to get to the place where lost innocents go. Where they giggle and fall in hopeless love. I wanted someone’s innocence to love me. I imagined the lost innocents as my lost boys, and I their Wendy. You were Peter Pan and her innocence, her beautiful innocence was Tinker Bell; all of us never growing up.

Limbo made me remember that you used to taste like southern snow - which is mostly dirty ice water, but I would put it in my mouth happily. When and if it came I would take it and smile – grateful.





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