oldforgegirl

Brianna just may be the most popular girl in school. You can hate her for that if you want to, but you'll still kind of like her. You don't really have a choice. The thing is that when she walks into a room, she kind of just, glows. She lets herself do that because she knows she can. Confidence comes as second nature to her, why wouldn't anyone else want to be around her? It's actually a good question. I wonder, sometimes, about Brianna. About whether she ever tells a joke that falls flat. If she ever feels alone. When I'm down sometimes I remind myself that she's a close friend, I let myself forget that she's close friends with half the s

I passed by the restaurant yesterday. The one where you sat next to me even though there were plenty other places to sit. You talked to me in little bits of conversation I don't remember, off-side comments about basketball and how much extra the two of us had to put towards the bill. It didn't mean anything to me then, maybe it didn't to you either, but then again, everything's different now. And Sunday I drove by the hotel. The one with the skating rink, do you remember that? I do. We laughed about how watery the ice was, about our terrible plastic rented skates. You said something about how if you fell you'd be swimming, and if I could go

Black eyes rest continually on my face, the stains of late-night creativity taking it's toll. "You look tired" they say, and then they'll ask why I have sharpie marks all over my arms. I smile. By midday I regret the sleepless hours, but my nocturnal drive finds me by nightfall, It's 9 and I shoot for 10, it's 10 and I promise at 11 I'll retreat. But by 11 I'm in between crayon strokes and carpal tunnel, enough avid thoughts bouncing through my brain to keep me awake until dawn. You might call me insane for working for hours on letters I might never send. My inner therapist concurs, but he's such a drip anyways. I think I'll keep on working

elijah is 1 month and 13 days and his eyes wander along the contours of your face for what seems like hours. the shapes, the colors, the feel of breath in his lungs, it's all new to him and it leaves him stunned. you hold him in your arms and it's like heaven – little fingers pull you to his skin, and his eyes make an almost adult command – "stay" and he looks up to you, his ocean eyes eager and trusting, for all he knows you're kind and dependable and honest and all the things you wish you were. won't you lie to him? tell him that the world is perfect and people are nice and that death is just an urban legend, he'll find out the

I am a broken marionette, my strings hopelessly tangled in between the misguided tugs of an amateur puppeteer. I can struggle to get free for hours, blind wrenching against the cords only chips my paint and leaves me dangling from the rafters of a musty toy store. I am helpless, I am useless, I am hopeless. Won't you buy me? Your hands are steady, your eye is keen, won't you fix me? Somewhere beneath this flaky paint job, there's more than just driftwood, I promise. I hope. There has to be something, right? I know I'm something, somewhere deep down inside, I am. I think. I am more than just a puppet. Something's chiseling through my limbs

right now it's 6:44 on a tuesday night and she's wrapped up in the heartbeat of early june and the smell of her backyard after crisp rain. she sighs, sliding the phone behind her palms, staring at his name takes her breath away.  her hands slide across the keys – "I miss you" and then it's gone, the message whirling through away through the soggy summer air. now it's 6:46 and karen kight is lifting her hands off the steering wheel to turn up the blaring radio. "WHOOOOO!" she yells at the red light, but her car comes to a perfect stop, after all she just got her provisional and she wouldn't want to lose it by getting into any stupid acci

(Pick a color) I remember when our futures were written in between cootie catchers, we'd take our chances with the roll of the dice because we had years left over to make our mistakes - no crying over spilt milk, right? Those were the days - when we had nothing to lose and all the chances to figure it out. B-L-U-E I remember the winters of inside out pajamas, the summers of firefly-catching and bare feet. I remember the half-faking fears of stepping on cracks and monsters under the bed, I remember every shooting star wish -  i wish i may, i wish i might - For the life of me I can't recall what I wished for. (Pick a number) I remember the

The words reel through her mind as she watches the game play out against the setting sun, but to no avail. Every time she tries to speak, she freezes, the awkward silence a dry heave, and then the moment passes along with the what-ifs and could-haves. But the game is still young as she watches, the ball dribbles across the pavement to a John Wesley Hoover, 17, who arcs it, pushes up his glasses and watches the swish. Hoover chuckles, his jump shot never fails, and for a split second his eyes light up like when he's playing guitar again but it's already packed up in his Nissan. He's pretty good, suprising, since he hasn't played besides these

It's funny that we both steal glances until there's nothing left to take. I have to wonder when I see you looking out of the corner of my eye, but when I look back you scatter, and maybe it was nothing. Still, when you look at me I smile, trying to hide that I'm thining about you too. And maybe it's a little bit of you, too; warming the corners of my heart, my grin crinkles so naturally with your gaze. Someday you'll be mine. Someday. Maybe. And the words - the ones I never seem to find - they've never come easier than when I'm with you. Somehow when we talk the words flow out like water, I never go thirsty when we're together. The roller-