Faith Michaels (16)
every time i look at you, it’s like the first time
she brushes her disheveled, walnut-hued hair out of her gently tanned face in a smooth motion. her lips are clumsy but her mind is graceful, flowing over, under, and around thoughts like a falcon with anxiety. the midnight-skinned boy coated in athletic wear asks her cynically,
“did someone punch you in both eyes?”
she sucks in air, her fearful frown fading into a forced smirk,
“it’s called lack of sleep.”
his shimmering eyes are not amused, but the corners of his mouth open in retort. she watches his hands flicker between humor and concern as he clarifies,
“well, i am superhuman, so i don’t need sleep. but you do.”
he proudly anticipates her presumable insult, leaving her space to contradict his statement. her facade drops in her chest, her sullen eyes rise to meet his. the uncalloused surface of her brain winces as she mercilessly digs her fingernails into the flesh of her palm. she engages in a staring contest with the shaggy carpet and says,
“i’m fine.”
he shifts away. as he fills acquaintances with laughter, she searches for the unhappy side of the class clown. her observant nature conflicts her intuition, and she concludes that he would not understand. she is grateful for the smile he works diligently to create.
“a bouncy ball,” she whispers in realization.
a girl named freedom bounces up and down, her tame, sandy brown ponytail and erratic heartbeat pumping energy into the air. freedom’s sky blue eyes are too naive to be terrifying. her arrogance thrives in the confusion of the definitions of sympathy and empathy.
she wishes freedom would stop pouring hand sanitizer on her open wounds. she wants freedom to be innocent in her invalidation.
her mom commands in a presumptuous tone, “it’s time to go.”
she looks around for someone to cling to, but all she sees are social butterflies, tired honor students, and friends whispering interpersonal advice.
“okay,” she sighs.
her headphones shift into lifelines and she huddles against the car seat, aimlessly shoving her wild hair out of her line of sight. she closes her eyes, clutching her worn gray sweater, praying that this car ride will last for all of eternity.
the way she looked and felt, the words she penned, and the things she did that night are not the kind of things you ever tell.
so she never told.
she watched the clock turn and fought her way out of bed, begging gravity to let her stand, asking her dizzy brain for forgiveness. her mouth is saltwater dry and, in her mom’s old softball tee, she stumbles down the stairs to the sink. the stomach pains are almost unbearable, so she fools her body into filling itself with water. the stairs look like mountains and she climbs with her hands locked on the wooden railing.
“one splinter for every six steps,” she counts under her breath.
her closet is black on black on black, and she grabs black and black and black. she turns from the mirror in shame: her skin is blue and blue and blue, purple and purple and purple, red and red and red. she rests her face in her hands and wonders if she is allowed to cry.
“are we there yet?” her sister asks.
when her mom shakes her head, her lush brown ringlets dance over her pastel blouse shoulders. her mother’s face sinks in worry, but she parks the car without incident.
everything becomes a daze of sorrowful anticipation.
she drags her feet over the pathway, pretending it does not feel like walking on nails. the sunlight reveals her mismatching blacks. she is too distressed to notice. her fingers wrap around a doorknob, apply enough pressure to turn, and slowly pull at the heavy oak. her subconscious screams. she rewrites her countenance.
“hey,” his blue raspberry cotton candy eyes glance up.
she twists the fabric of her shirt around her fingernails, “hey.”
“close the door,” he directs.
his play-actress obeys.
his play-actress is petrified.
he turns from jekyll to hyde before her eyes.
the words he yells are convenient for her toxic poetry.
she sits cross-legged on the dull chestnut floor, a willow tree, patient and silent in the eye of the storm. she listens to music inside her head. she pretends she is the cool breeze and maple tree branches are swinging into her.
“limbs are flesh-covered branches,” she whispers.
he pauses, steps back. his hands run through hollywood blonde hair, his tree trunk spine is rigid, his lips press together to form both the judge and the jury. his accusing eyes glare into her, awaiting an inadequate explanation.
“i don’t want to be the defendant anymore.”
he rolls his eyes, “what the hell is that supposed to mean?”
“i didn’t even get a lawyer,” she implores, “i can’t defend myself.”
he sighs in frustration, fingers clenching, shape shifting back into fists.
“you are fucking insane!” he shouts.
“no,” i answer, my body grimacing as i breathe, my shallow eyes spilling.
“i am in love with you.”
he strikes me in the face.
my love is unchanged.
Faith is a sixteen year old Instagram poet found at the handle @sunflowermonsoon, better known as f.m. She has a self-published book available on Amazon, “i am almost out of bones to break.” She currently attends Harrisburg University in pursuit of a Masters Degree in Interactive Media. She can be contacted through her Instagram or at the email [email protected].
every time i look at you, it’s like the first time
she brushes her disheveled, walnut-hued hair out of her gently tanned face in a smooth motion. her lips are clumsy but her mind is graceful, flowing over, under, and around thoughts like a falcon with anxiety. the midnight-skinned boy coated in athletic wear asks her cynically,
“did someone punch you in both eyes?”
she sucks in air, her fearful frown fading into a forced smirk,
“it’s called lack of sleep.”
his shimmering eyes are not amused, but the corners of his mouth open in retort. she watches his hands flicker between humor and concern as he clarifies,
“well, i am superhuman, so i don’t need sleep. but you do.”
he proudly anticipates her presumable insult, leaving her space to contradict his statement. her facade drops in her chest, her sullen eyes rise to meet his. the uncalloused surface of her brain winces as she mercilessly digs her fingernails into the flesh of her palm. she engages in a staring contest with the shaggy carpet and says,
“i’m fine.”
he shifts away. as he fills acquaintances with laughter, she searches for the unhappy side of the class clown. her observant nature conflicts her intuition, and she concludes that he would not understand. she is grateful for the smile he works diligently to create.
“a bouncy ball,” she whispers in realization.
a girl named freedom bounces up and down, her tame, sandy brown ponytail and erratic heartbeat pumping energy into the air. freedom’s sky blue eyes are too naive to be terrifying. her arrogance thrives in the confusion of the definitions of sympathy and empathy.
she wishes freedom would stop pouring hand sanitizer on her open wounds. she wants freedom to be innocent in her invalidation.
her mom commands in a presumptuous tone, “it’s time to go.”
she looks around for someone to cling to, but all she sees are social butterflies, tired honor students, and friends whispering interpersonal advice.
“okay,” she sighs.
her headphones shift into lifelines and she huddles against the car seat, aimlessly shoving her wild hair out of her line of sight. she closes her eyes, clutching her worn gray sweater, praying that this car ride will last for all of eternity.
the way she looked and felt, the words she penned, and the things she did that night are not the kind of things you ever tell.
so she never told.
she watched the clock turn and fought her way out of bed, begging gravity to let her stand, asking her dizzy brain for forgiveness. her mouth is saltwater dry and, in her mom’s old softball tee, she stumbles down the stairs to the sink. the stomach pains are almost unbearable, so she fools her body into filling itself with water. the stairs look like mountains and she climbs with her hands locked on the wooden railing.
“one splinter for every six steps,” she counts under her breath.
her closet is black on black on black, and she grabs black and black and black. she turns from the mirror in shame: her skin is blue and blue and blue, purple and purple and purple, red and red and red. she rests her face in her hands and wonders if she is allowed to cry.
“are we there yet?” her sister asks.
when her mom shakes her head, her lush brown ringlets dance over her pastel blouse shoulders. her mother’s face sinks in worry, but she parks the car without incident.
everything becomes a daze of sorrowful anticipation.
she drags her feet over the pathway, pretending it does not feel like walking on nails. the sunlight reveals her mismatching blacks. she is too distressed to notice. her fingers wrap around a doorknob, apply enough pressure to turn, and slowly pull at the heavy oak. her subconscious screams. she rewrites her countenance.
“hey,” his blue raspberry cotton candy eyes glance up.
she twists the fabric of her shirt around her fingernails, “hey.”
“close the door,” he directs.
his play-actress obeys.
his play-actress is petrified.
he turns from jekyll to hyde before her eyes.
the words he yells are convenient for her toxic poetry.
she sits cross-legged on the dull chestnut floor, a willow tree, patient and silent in the eye of the storm. she listens to music inside her head. she pretends she is the cool breeze and maple tree branches are swinging into her.
“limbs are flesh-covered branches,” she whispers.
he pauses, steps back. his hands run through hollywood blonde hair, his tree trunk spine is rigid, his lips press together to form both the judge and the jury. his accusing eyes glare into her, awaiting an inadequate explanation.
“i don’t want to be the defendant anymore.”
he rolls his eyes, “what the hell is that supposed to mean?”
“i didn’t even get a lawyer,” she implores, “i can’t defend myself.”
he sighs in frustration, fingers clenching, shape shifting back into fists.
“you are fucking insane!” he shouts.
“no,” i answer, my body grimacing as i breathe, my shallow eyes spilling.
“i am in love with you.”
he strikes me in the face.
my love is unchanged.
Faith is a sixteen year old Instagram poet found at the handle @sunflowermonsoon, better known as f.m. She has a self-published book available on Amazon, “i am almost out of bones to break.” She currently attends Harrisburg University in pursuit of a Masters Degree in Interactive Media. She can be contacted through her Instagram or at the email [email protected].