Yesterday I discovered through the webbed trap of social media that she had died.
My heart leapt, surged with relief and a strange sense of guilt when I read that her heart exploded. I imagine her eyes going wide when the pain slammed into her chest. Maybe she felt her fingers tingle. Maybe for a millisecond she thought of me.
Of the stolen kiss. Of the shunning after that sticky kiss that made my knees shake, her mouth tasting like petroleum and strawberries, slick with lip gloss.
I remember her mouth, always full and plump. I remember the cleft in her chin, deeper than mine. Her bistre colored eyes under a sheaf of bleached blond hair. She was perfect. Always stylish, never shabby.
How I hated her. Looking in her eyes, being surrounded by a pack of teenage girls circling like country blue eyeliner tarted up wolves. The shock when the spittle hit my face, my heart bending again. Hatred creeping in, curling and black into my heart, into the chamber where I cradle and nurse hate. It feeds off the thudding corruption of pumping blood, unlike hers.
She intimidated me. Genuinely. At the school dances when I would sneakily request inappropriate songs from approved artist compact discs, she would be the center of attention, her body rolling and snaking on the dance floor.
Her inexpert but focused sexuality was undefinable, and she wore it with impunity. Even one of the male teachers eyes stared at her hungrily, running up and down her tan body.
I imagine the cold wormy ground. Had they embalmed her? Prolonged the rotting of the corporeal flesh with disgusting fluids that never should have been made for the human body? Did they sew her eyelids shut?
As she is in oblivion, her body has most likely exploded by now, methane and sadness filling her coffin. Her once pretty face sunken and hollow, cracked lips and split cheeks.
I wanted a final showdown. I longed to slink bank to the inevitable reunion, sucking my teeth and winning because I got out of that shitty town. I wanted to drink her with my eyes and spit out the cherry stem of her spine.
But in a way, she won.
She took my victory from me, and left me with a hollow feeling nothing like grief. I am the have the strangest conflict in my mind, still with the pain I feel. The unexpected pain of loss. Even though I don't grieve, or even despair of a young life ended by an explosion of muscular valves.
But loss, that I do feel. And I have no moral compass for things such as these.
My heart leapt, surged with relief and a strange sense of guilt when I read that her heart exploded. I imagine her eyes going wide when the pain slammed into her chest. Maybe she felt her fingers tingle. Maybe for a millisecond she thought of me.
Of the stolen kiss. Of the shunning after that sticky kiss that made my knees shake, her mouth tasting like petroleum and strawberries, slick with lip gloss.
I remember her mouth, always full and plump. I remember the cleft in her chin, deeper than mine. Her bistre colored eyes under a sheaf of bleached blond hair. She was perfect. Always stylish, never shabby.
How I hated her. Looking in her eyes, being surrounded by a pack of teenage girls circling like country blue eyeliner tarted up wolves. The shock when the spittle hit my face, my heart bending again. Hatred creeping in, curling and black into my heart, into the chamber where I cradle and nurse hate. It feeds off the thudding corruption of pumping blood, unlike hers.
She intimidated me. Genuinely. At the school dances when I would sneakily request inappropriate songs from approved artist compact discs, she would be the center of attention, her body rolling and snaking on the dance floor.
Her inexpert but focused sexuality was undefinable, and she wore it with impunity. Even one of the male teachers eyes stared at her hungrily, running up and down her tan body.
I imagine the cold wormy ground. Had they embalmed her? Prolonged the rotting of the corporeal flesh with disgusting fluids that never should have been made for the human body? Did they sew her eyelids shut?
As she is in oblivion, her body has most likely exploded by now, methane and sadness filling her coffin. Her once pretty face sunken and hollow, cracked lips and split cheeks.
I wanted a final showdown. I longed to slink bank to the inevitable reunion, sucking my teeth and winning because I got out of that shitty town. I wanted to drink her with my eyes and spit out the cherry stem of her spine.
But in a way, she won.
She took my victory from me, and left me with a hollow feeling nothing like grief. I am the have the strangest conflict in my mind, still with the pain I feel. The unexpected pain of loss. Even though I don't grieve, or even despair of a young life ended by an explosion of muscular valves.
But loss, that I do feel. And I have no moral compass for things such as these.
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