Outfits

Fingernails thumping the tempered glass, hurriedly and literally searching for something out there, someone out there who could possibly be speaking about what I am too afraid to even touch with the delicate fingers of my thoughts. Let’s hit rewind.

An 18-year-old, bright-eyed, straight-A’d, outfit-perfectly-matched girl starts her journey to adulthood, or… escape to adulthood. It’s all in the perspective, you see. All the events leading up to this point are small blades of dead grass spitting out of the lawn mower that is your life into a mess of foliage that you sweep up and hide away. The lawn mower can push on, it still works. These things don’t affect you, you see.

Deep breaths. Start fresh. Fast forward. I am not the kind of girl that thinks about committing suicide. That's not my type. This shouldn’t be happening. My shoes match my necklace, you see.

Salty drops are hitting the screen and I see a button. I see a microphone and problems. Oh, the joy I see problems! Yes! I listen as the beautiful words roll off the tongues of these people. All people. People with matching outfits and in that very moment I learn that… I am not alone, you see.

This poem is about: 
Me

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