As she texted this to me, While her family had reached her city and was on their way to pick her up. She still had to do a couple of dishes but had just lotioned her hands. It was nice to worry about the meager present for a while. Too devastating and she can only Lie to herself for so long.
Like Ordinary girls, It was nice to worry about certain things like nail polish chipping, The skin problems, tanning level etc. The destination was waiting to embrace her but she knows the cost, She has to perform the old version of her for her family. Not all of it was a NATAK but it weighed on her That she was a coward to play for even a scene.
Does the Quran there sound exactly like the one near her mom’s? Her thoughts made me write about this, in between thoughts of these confusions, but duties beckon. It was not winter-break 3am yesterday anymore, staying up until her body clock asked for sleep. Her life was a surely real arthouse drugged dream and it demanded a dying star.
she said performance, pretension like she was anything but. She wanted to remember feeling like this, but she knew She would remember only how the heater was a good hair dryer or that the outside looked like a picture with the bright blue highlight on everything, like the sky was throwing up everything inside of it.
She looked at all that empty inside. Look at the not-necessary people who didn’t matter until they were gone, mostly present in absence & all the background noise she always wanted to escape out, now was louder than ever in her missings; recalled the dial up the volume. She could see the world and the way it wasn’t meant to be.
She had folded up her blanket since She started. she chart time in tasks so there’s always a keen, set to a low volume in the back of her mind, wail pitched to the panic that she was not getting enough done. Maybe she was nervous about mother’s reaction when she comes into her room and realizes she didn’t eat as much as she lied & said she did. maybe she wasn’t pretending the nervousness wasn’t actually about going her mamu marrying into her molester’s family.
She unraveled ideas from her trauma but it was grand and decaying, combination so political that wasn’t personal, something that reconciled herself and her duty that awaited an inevitable loss.
She realized her longing had spilled out the window when she heard it landed on the stairs below, something wet, like her heart falling. The privilege of worrying about brows & cosmic emptiness & not the possibility that the coming week would put more children in her family in danger & her silence made her complicit. her bones fly away from her face, cutting through her mother to make her. She painted them over with gold and lies. the show must go on.