Young Writers Society

She was, in no way, a dream girl. Nevertheless, to me she was so perfect that no other attraction could pry my attention away long enough from her silhouette to make me realize how much she was not meant for me.

I like girls with curves, big ass, big tits. She was not so. She was slender and she melted like snow in my fingers dripping onto the floor away from my grip. This woman made me write poetry.

I always asked for a girl who would do what I wanted, a misogynistic fantasy is what I sought after. And this little girl stood up to me, slapped realization across my face and brought stars to my eyes, making me fall head over feet on the clouds her head was always but never residing in. I needed her. And she needed my respect.

I wanted a girl whose luggage had been left at the door. A plaything to whom putting on a smiley facemask was part of celebrating mock love. But this dame was outright, she hated. And I was the noun. Everyone and everything was the noun. I did not feel compelled to help her, that was not what she wanted anyway. I did, however feel compelled to hold her. She was not a tragic story as she did not want to be. She was no romanticized damsel. She was human. More than any broad I’d faked a dance with before.

She made me realize women were people too.

She became my best friend (with whom I could share my deepest secrets and darkest daydreams), my sister (who I would trust to cover for me when I was caught smoking in the boys room), my mother (who gave to me unconditional cherishment, as long as I came true) and my teacher (of brilliant ideas my hatching in Texas and flight lessons in Oklahoma had kept me from) and my pastor (who explained to me that I will never be right until I am alone) and my everything (…).

Her eyes were wide, but filled with galaxies I never thought to stare at, and maps covered with places she would run away to on a whim. Never before had I seen pupils so deep until she told me there was no god. I knew that was untrue because I saw heaven in there, so far in the back that I knew only she would ever feel the greatness of it.

Her lips stayed straight until we were outside. A constant reminder that we are not meant to be cooped up as we force each other to be. Even when she was silent I watched her lips move and whisper that she was in hell where she was.

She had freckles, and they spelled out north and each one had a story. They had been sprinkled across her face, dust residue dropped from the pockets of the Sandman of my childhood. They dotted her back, the story she said, was a rich one of how the sun kissed her across a part of her body that is always hidden.

“And I lay naked on the roof in the sun, talking about everything and anything while we let in the life that feeds the daisies.”

I’ll admit, I didn’t get it.

And she told me, Not yet.
Her fingers were long and nimble, fast enough to type across a keyboard, but the calluses on the side of her middle, ring, and pointer fingers said she would always prefer a pen and paper. Those will never betray you.

On her arms there were scars. We don’t talk about those often. When I first saw her legs and saw the swirly, heart shaped, patterns that adorned the topmost part of her thighs I was scared. But she looked at me with those devil-deep eyes and challenged me to say she was ugly. Tell her it disgusted me. Tell her I hate her.

I could not.

We used to sit and tell stories. Hers were always better than mine, but I’m not so good with words anyways. She told me of adventures. Of dreams about never coming back. Whims to jump. Whims to lay down on the train tracks. Whims to follow those tracks to a new world with only a bag of water and love.

And one day, I lost her forever.

She asked me to stop in the middle of the road. She got out of the car and gave me ten dollars - gas - and took four. I know exactly four. Four steps to the shoulder of the road. And she turned, and winked. She told me with her bubble eyelashes, do not follow me. Do not find me.

She kicked off her shoes, she did not need those anymore. And she turned away, taking off her shirt and entering the great beyond.

Her adventure with me was over. I cannot regret it, the best things that ever happened to me were her. But I sometimes do wonder who has joined her on her next quest to happiness.

Anybody?

https://soundcloud.com/quynn-roo-tidwell/galaxies-in-her-eyes