Mar 2019
Jumpy. That’s what they’ll call me.
The girl who’s jumpy but doesn’t like to go too far from home or too far out of her own head. Jumpy. Around people. From conclusion to conclusion to somewhere way further outside the lines than I should be coloring. Hey, maybe someone came in and scared me and it all happened so fast. You can’t ever fully erase anything, you know?
What will they think of me?
Will they ask why I left?
“I was *****,” I will tell them. I may say more. I may not. Either way, my face will burn. Either way, I will regret it. Either way, they will be more lenient with me because I am glass and they don’t want to have to pay for what they break. I am not worth the extra $2.50 out of their bank accounts.
Do they all feel like this? This daze, where even when they’re wearing their glasses, the furniture blends into the floor blends into the walls blends into the ceiling blends into the doorways and they can’t see the exit either? The people moving in front of them are the ants that I stared at for hours at a time outside my father’s house in over 100 degree weather because anything is better than rat infestations. Anything is better than hands all over you. Anything is better than the drunkenness that permeates throughout the house, and yes, it is contagious.
Yes, I am contagious. You will want to wash me off of you before you even touch me. That’s okay, I do it too. Only it won’t stay off of me. I live inside of myself, but not really. There is not that solid final Russian doll inside the others. That is not me, and it never will be. And I’m sorry if you’re wasting your time looking, because you just will never find her. And that’s something you will have to either accept or move on from. So which will it be?
The girl who’s jumpy but doesn’t like to go too far from home or too far out of her own head. Jumpy. Around people. From conclusion to conclusion to somewhere way further outside the lines than I should be coloring. Hey, maybe someone came in and scared me and it all happened so fast. You can’t ever fully erase anything, you know?
What will they think of me?
Will they ask why I left?
“I was *****,” I will tell them. I may say more. I may not. Either way, my face will burn. Either way, I will regret it. Either way, they will be more lenient with me because I am glass and they don’t want to have to pay for what they break. I am not worth the extra $2.50 out of their bank accounts.
Do they all feel like this? This daze, where even when they’re wearing their glasses, the furniture blends into the floor blends into the walls blends into the ceiling blends into the doorways and they can’t see the exit either? The people moving in front of them are the ants that I stared at for hours at a time outside my father’s house in over 100 degree weather because anything is better than rat infestations. Anything is better than hands all over you. Anything is better than the drunkenness that permeates throughout the house, and yes, it is contagious.
Yes, I am contagious. You will want to wash me off of you before you even touch me. That’s okay, I do it too. Only it won’t stay off of me. I live inside of myself, but not really. There is not that solid final Russian doll inside the others. That is not me, and it never will be. And I’m sorry if you’re wasting your time looking, because you just will never find her. And that’s something you will have to either accept or move on from. So which will it be?
