She’s pressing her
fingers against her temples hard enough to give her occipital lobes a bruise
the color of the nail polish she picked off last night. She threw away the
script she was supposed to keep for the rest of her life, so she’s running off
book whilst the rest of humanity knows exactly what to say. She’d really rather
have it that way; intelligent understanding seems to her, when all is said and
done, a little too mainstream for her eloquent silence. She’s writing in
gloves, scratching in gloves, touching herself in gloves so that her DNA is
kept to herself; she’s keeping everything to herself. She had 27 seconds left
and she couldn’t think of a New Year’s resolution. It’s a good thing she didn’t
think she needed improvement.
She doesn’t know what day
it is and she doesn’t know what direction would take her to a room inside
someone’s mind to call her own. She’s got her stuff packed in a little napkin
tied to a stick, and she’s got her toothbrush in her back pocket, so that she
can wipe all the cities off her teeth and keep a running tally of the number of
renditions of beauty she would find on the map.
She looks like a
foreigner wherever she goes. That’s probably why she ran so far from her daddy’s
bible and her mommy’s cookies, straight in a straight line to a land where her
inability to speak the language resulted from locational proximity rather than
an emotional detachment. She lived on
the beach and never touched the sea; she worked at an amusement park and never
rode a ride; she moved to a big city so that she could complain about the smog.
She probably still smoked
through her teeth and maintained her intense superiority.
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