Do you remember meeting me? It was February and below freezing. Everyone else had gone home. You said hello, and I said something about your shoes that didn't make much sense. You smiled, and two minutes turned into twenty-five. I'd never laughed so hard with someone Before even knowing their name.
Lately, I've been thinking about the way things used to be. You were all wrong. But sometimes, something about that seemed all right. I lost myself in your powder. Passion. Fire. Fury. I didn't care what you made me do. How you made me feel. Where you took me. What you cost.
And lately, I've been wondering what it would be like not to care again.
I scribbled our names in sidewalk chalk on the corner of your street- purple-cursive enclosed in a crooked yellow heart-imperfect e n o u g h to make us giggle but bright enough for all to see- just-like-l o v e
Ever notice how most girls say they're not like most girls? Well, I'm going to veer off course a little and say that I am like most girls. Because, like most girls, I'm complicated. And stubborn. And jealous. And moody. At times, I'm downright impossible. I say one thing, mean another, expect you to know what I'm thinking and get mad when you don't. Like most girls, I can tell the difference between two shades of blue. Or two tones of voice. Or two brands of shoe. Like most girls, I cry over boys that don't deserve my tears, ponder over things that aren't worth my time and giggle over...
Crystal is too thin. Her words hit her lips before they leave her brain. She dons a messy ensemble and is missing a prominent front tooth. Her first name coincides with her drug of choice. And everyone can tell.
But despite reservations and incomplete thoughts, she manages a mumbled confession: I'm fucked up. And I want to change.
My name is Meghan - which, in no way, mirrors my mistakes. My weight is average and my sentences still make sense. I have 28 teeth, and -according to my dentist-...
My dad has a glass of wine with dinner: California Chardonnay and Chicken Cordon Bleu: A winning combination if there ever were one. I don a false smile, but decline a taste of either, disappear upstairs for a taste of something stronger to curb my (lack of) appetite and tame my cocaine buzz.
Jose Cuervo waits in all his golden glory. One shot with a whisk of water reminds me that I should not be doing this alone. But I don't know where he is. And I don't know where she went. ...
She sure is a princess green-eyed and auburn-haired full-lipped and sun-dipped blue jeans so rightly paired with a gum-pop and tight top cut in all the right places eliciting longing stares on all the boys faces.
But her eyes fall on one who takes her for granted she walks towards him shyly in lust and enchanted. And I want to say STOP! You could do SO much better. But I suppose she could say the same to me. So I stand back ... and let her.