girl

A note from the Author
You all knew it would be here. This is a twist off from The Boy Who Never Truly Lived. This is following the narrator’s life after the other story. It tells of love, dreams, friends, and whatever else happens to the narrator in her life. Enjoy!

Almost everyday the musician comes over
Sometimes we go for walks
Sometimes picnics
Sometimes we just goof around
Its wondrous being with the musician
He’s quite the gentleman
He’s tall and pale and skinny as a bored
But he is also very muscular
He came from the country and isn’t afraid of hard work
He has shoulder length curly hair
Its such a deep dark shade of brown
He likes vintage tees and isn’t afraid to wear pink
He actually looks really good in pink
He believes in sharing an umbrella
Holding doors open for people
And tightly hugging me for long periods of time
He is really quite something
And on top of all that
He has an amazing sense of humor

Once there was a girl
She thought she was going to die
A sallow complexion
And dark baggy eyes.
The doctors told her,
There’s nothing they could do.
Maybe it was just the flu.

Once there was a girl
The doctors said she would die.
A sallow complexion
And dark baggy eyes.
The doctors told her,
Only seven months
Not once,
Did she ask why.

Once there was a girl,
Her mother found her dead.
Laying lifeless
On a hospital bed.
No complexion,
Or bags on her eyes.
With no reasons why.

Once there was a mother,
Found her daughter dead
On a hospital bed.
No complexion,
Or bags on her eyes.
She never
Could really know why.

Red silk drapes around her,
It supports while she contorts.
Together they are one,
Separate they heed no magic.

The air is tense while she flies through it,
She makes no noise yet we scream inside:
"Will she live? Will she survive?"

She accepts the fear,
Aware but distant,
Within herself and without.
She lives only for it,
She lives because of it,
It lives because of her.

They carry her away,
But is she ever gone?
Now, two empty drapes flutter,
In the singing wind.

She's changed and
she realizes it and
(more than) sometimes
she gets
home
sick
for that
little girl dressed in
sunflowers and
finger paints, but

today when she
hugged the tree and
sunk her fingers
beneath its bark until
she could feel
the cool of its
heart,
pulsing slowly like
the color
of your
eyes,

she realized that
in times like
these,

she hasn't
changed

at all.

Lately my nights have been
a dizzy kaleidescope of incense
and candles and
flickering shadows
against my shaking
fingers.

Every night
I strike
the matches, watch as they
grow, dance, fly,
they are my
children,
of sorts.
Sometimes I think
that I can hear
their whispers.

And sometimes
I let the match
keep burning,
the fire alive as it
crawls towards my finger,

Hey,
what's up, Sweet Thing?
You look stunning:
hair grown long
and died
platinum blond,
tight clothes gripping your cold
fair skin,
nails nicely manicured,
face made up so that
I can barely recognize you.
You've grown so much.

Sweet Thing,
how's life?
How's the family?
How are the friends?
Is school going well?
Studying hard,
getting A's,
I hope.
(laugh.)