t w e l v e
this is my skin that I've never fit in
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I'm twelve when she awakens. Like a fairytale princess, she shakes loose her long, tumbling locks as she rises from a deep slumber. She draws my gaze like a prom queen: Everything that everyone ever wanted to be or befriend.
She exists only on the periphery, hearing what I hear, knowing what I know—that I am an other. I am different. Imperfect. Her opposite.
She is captivating in her elegance. She is the tiniest drop of water on a hot, still day. The mirage of an oasis in the desert. A teasing glimpse of what could be, that leaves me wanting more.
But all I can do is watch her, and by the time I think to reach out, she fades away.
I'm twelve when I see an angel.
YOU ARE READING
Ana
Short StoryShe was everything. The air I breathed, the oxygen in my veins. Everything that kept me alive. She was me. She was.
