A sky before a storm. Amber cast in silver. A knot in a maple tree. Shadows on a summer day. New growth on an old firn. Sea glass freshly washed ashore from years of abuse.
He has more friends than he can count. They laugh together because charisma is his best trait. He doesn’t talk about home, where his sick mother encourages him to have fun. He wants to be with her, but she refuses to let him waste away with her.
She has been living out of a suitcase since she was six. Two homes, two lives. Her mother lives paycheck-to-paycheck and her father is a part of the one percent. Nothing feels permanent; she doesn’t have friends at either house. The neighbors forget she even exists.
His parents call him by a name that isn’t his and make him dress in clothes that set his skin on fire. He is scared to be himself. The side eyes and faint whispers, because kids are perceptive, are enough to keep him quiet. This place isn’t home and he can’t wait to be free.
She is in love and wants to shout it from the rooftops she holds her hand and couldn’t be happier. Lyrics litter her desk because her mind is cluttered with her. She isn’t scared of the men on the street (yes she is) because nothing they could do to her will change how she feels (except one, but at that point, she wouldn’t be feeling anything).
He wants to call. He wants to talk about all the sights, all the sounds he has come across. He wants to share this and hear his dad’s input. He wants to answer questions and tell him how much he loves school. He doesn’t. He’s afraid that the number has been activated on a new phone. He’s afraid of hearing someone else pick up.
She’s been sleeping in her car for almost a week, different parking lot each night. She doesn’t regret running, she just wished she had somewhere to go, someone to come home to. She’s going west, to the ocean, to miles and miles away from a small town that houses little girls who used to pull her hair and call her a bitch. She’s never seen the beach. Maybe she’ll cut her hair.
A sky before a storm. Amber cast in silver. A knot in a maple tree. Shadows on a summer day. New growth on an old firn. Sea glass freshly washed ashore from years of abuse.
Prose
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I can’t even think of words to describe this piece… (in a good way. No, better than a ‘good way’, in an incredible way.)