Thursday, May 7, 2009

She Is Was Agnst

I studied her welling eyes on the verge of dripping her liquid-troubles to the floor. Her evening hair and her dining dress soaked in a pitiful quagmire dealt to her from life. Negativity drenched her and built her in burnt orange but I wanted in anyway. She fixed her palms in her forearms, surfacing from a place where school fish and whale mouths misunderstood and submerged her.

“Why do you choke yourself up so bad?” I asked, “It’s all right to be vulnerable.”

But, then, wrapped in the earth, she was stronger with empty pupils and faster gesticulations. Her holiday halo was no different than the philanthropists but she needed to mean more. Not just giving Christmases but contributing them to the expectations of abusive disappointment. Those who were drenched in that same negative sea and the same desperate cry for some lifesaving anything. Those who wanted a direction to drown and others who yearned for rearing.

“I’ve been vulnerable for the first five years of my life,” she started, “Five years is a long time. Imagine five years locked in a basement. That’s torture. Five years as a doctor is a lot of money. Five years is quite a long time…”

I observed her in my vermilion to my old gold to my green to my azure.

“Much too long to depend on someone or something.”

She didn’t realize I had her and that I wasn’t just another she’d carelessly forget about. If I gave up now, she would bitterly classify me as a specific straw to her stable rooftop. But I wouldn’t take that. I wanted to be the needle that was embedded in her pessimistic place, individually stiffened to stay. I would dry her so flawless from any ocean that would consume her and confuse her again. She paced in a state of shuffling the puddle that drained from her. So ignorant to learn that her tear ducts dissolved in the aqua that flailed her. But in a place where she thought she escaped it, she unleash them anyway, drowning in the school fish and the whale mouths and my light blues for comfort them.

“Five years is too long to submit yourself to. It’s too long a time to be helpless.”

She gasped for air and for someone, I knew she needed, to follow her nonstop motions.

“And much too less a time to be a child.”