I decided to change the title of that poem because it's for school, but God knows I'm using it for something later :')
Mention of a stomach ulcer, but no graphic description of it.
Hey
How are you?
It's normal, I promise.
(Sooo I'm going to do a little journal entry and then some poetry about it. Enjoy!)
Hazel is not her real name btw,,
Journal,
There's this girl. I've known her for about two months, and because of my queer little school I've spent many many hours with her. She's short, tan, and always has thick eyeliner on. It is reminiscent of Egyptian spirit eyes on the side of a sarcophagus. To see out from the heavens, and into the real world. Ironically, Hazel has had the opposite affect on me.
Upon suggesting that she get her hair cut in a bob to fully become cleopatra, she replied: "Nah, I'd look like Dora the Explorer." She's Brazilian and can actually speak Spanish - so we laughed at this for hours.
Even visually, we fit together. I'm tall, lanky, and because my mom wanted (I'm not sure why I just do as she says) my hair is much blonder. I never wear makeup because I'm allergic, and my eyes have a permanent 'I just cried' look. We complete the Vitruvian teenage girl.
She's bright and beautiful. But she's gone through much more than me.
I'm solemn, and forgiving. But I have not been wronged quite as much as her.
One of the hardest parts of it all, was that we'd spoke about it many times. I really thought we were on the same page. Hazel, why are you giving me so many excuses? You know I don't deserve that.
She's cried in my arms in the school bathroom. I've sat next to her so a creepy boy didn't. I held her hair back as she had a Stomach ulcer - I remember quickly pulling out my hair tie and gently but quickly putting her hair in a bun. I rubbed her back and held her because she asked me to. She had saliva and tears dropping down her face, I think it got on my shoulder.
Some fucking boy told everyone that I was in love with her.
Im not. And I was pissed people were dragging me into their hormonal, middle-school bullshit.
I thought I'd loose the first person my age who seemed mature to the extent I was.
I didn't, so I kept going.
For once, I thought I was candidate for maybe having a best friend. She constantly insisted that because I was there for her, and that in the moment I finally let myself cry, she'd be there.
Friday
"Are you okay?" She asked as I sat on the counter next to the sink. Closed eyes, just trying to breath. Trying to not make a scene, no one can know I'm having a panic attack.
"Yeah," I replied. So blatantly obvious that I was not okay.
She nodded and left the bathroom.
Because it was easier.
Hazel, It would have been easier to not drop to the floor that one day. To not pull my hair out of the braid I'd worked so hard on. To not let the barrettes fall to the disgusting bathroom tile.
Easier to tell that boy that I hated her. To clear up everything.
Easier to not spend my only study period of the day helping you.
All of my precious, limited time I spent letting myself become prisoner a very primal teenage feeling:
A boyfriend for a week
The girlfriend for the week
A best friend for a week
An enemy for a week
Soon they'll all be hitting the same substance - friends for a week.
Really thought I was better than that
Still
Still I grieve for myself
one with much less
I talk about what's easier, but barely acknowledge the truth
That Its so easier to blame this all on you.
