Sometimes I used to lie in the warm, warm grass
And pretend to be blind.
I would hear the nonchalant buzz of airplanes,
Feel the soft breeze caress me,
And soak in the warmth of the sun.

I felt like I belonged there,
With the rustling of the trees,
And the butterflies flittering by.
As if I was part of the greater whole.

And I would marvel in this feeling,
And I would think to myself,
“Why does it have to end?
Why can’t I stay like this forever?”

These summer memories remind me of a girl.
I remember her clearly, tall,
Freckles, strawberry-blonde hair.
She used to brag about that hair.

She once told me, “forever is a long time”.
Sometimes I hated her.
Why is she so judgmental, so spiteful?
Doesn’t she know that she is acts much worse than I?

Friends, right? Well, I have other friends.
Ones that don’t critique my shyness
Ones that don’t point out my flaws
Ones that don’t tell me to get mad.

Oh, I get mad. You just don’t see it.
Only my closest friends know.
Let me give you a hint.
I become extremely quiet.

Shhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh.

Maybe that’s why you never think I get upset.
I’ll block you out, because I am too shy.
It’s one of my flaws, I guess.
I’m not as fabulous, am I?

But I know what people really think of you.
Someone once told me that you are
Just not they’re cup of tea.
Three people, actually.

*Maybe I am a bad person for writing this.
Maybe I am backhanded and mean.
Should I throw this out?
Or should I plead the first?

Maybe I’ll go lay in the grass.
By now it has faded to moss,
A mere shadow of its former self.
It let itself go, taken over by a weed.

But I’ll find someone new.
Someone who makes me laugh
And never puts me down
Someone who never fills me with such green jealousy.

Or maybe I will turn out like you said.
High hopes, but never reaching them.
Never pretty. Oh no. She was the pretty one.
I don’t have strawberry-blonde hair. Mine is plain brown.

Laura Ingalls Wilder once wrote,
“Mary has beautiful, golden locks.
But Laura has brown hair, the color of the dirt.”
Mary went blind. Laura married the most handsome man in the town.

I love to sit and think and remember.
All of this nostalgia builds and builds
And builds, till it explodes and I can’t
Find a way to contain it.

Perhaps, one day, I’ll find you.
And I’ll see how you turn out.
But I won’t rub it in.
I know that I am good enough.

I might need a little improvement,
But I’ll be older and wiser.
And prettier.
That’s all that matters to you, isn’t it?