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The clock was ticking away in the silent room;
bored, hopeless- I scribbled on the desk
Pen ran out of ink, s***.
Lowering my head down to the desk
in hopes of getting away from the humidity.
Close my eyes, now open
She was so fragile, I stared at her
focused on her image.
Her acid wash jeans were too short for her leg,
her pale ankles visible.
Cloth blue shoes, feet bobbing up and down
one leg draped over the other.
She wore a tie dyed shirt that looked worn down, it was probably her dads.
Her thin sun flower hair was loosely pulled back into a pony tail
Ribbons of yellow streamers in-between her shoulder blades.
Maroon fingers, cat eye makeup to emphasize her icy eyes.
She cocked her head, her long fingers easily controlled the pen as she drew all over her adm.
She often twisted it to get the different views, looking concerned.
She's an artist like that.
8 years ago we believed in varies and went on spiritual adventures with our voodoo and sacrifices.
Her house was filled with s***, floor to ceiling.
Her dad was embarrassed, throwing blankets on top of the piles of history.
She always had chocolate milk in their fridge, and a christmas tree in a cloudy living room.
Her brother was 15, rebelling in black Blink-182 T-shirts and a skateboard too match.
Laying in her rotting hammack, or playing hide and seek in the branches of pines.
Her house was like Candyland to me, looking twisted and abandoned.
Uncut grass, animals in cages outside, dirty broken toys lay everyone on the yard as if it were a battle ground for dead heroes.
Trinkets flooded every surface.
And there were books, lots of books.
I imagine my little self, crying on the phone to her;
begging us to stop fighting, you're my escape.
Sitting in a classroom at 16, I never would have guessed id be thinking about our old trunk of memories in the attic of my head.