All We Can Do
There she is. Standing with her arms wrapped around herself, blue hair falling back as she looks up at the tearing grey sky. Tight black jeans, loose black shirt, Doc Marten’s snug and planted in one spot for so long. I can’t tell if she’s crying, but I know the sky is, and I know she feels it. Her face isn’t perfect--acne, cracked lips that take so much effort not to kiss, small brown eyes that see the world in a way that no one else could--nor is her body: a chubby top half with perfect curves that flow into hips of gold and thighs that are not too big but not quite small enough and calves that have always been too muscular.
She removes her eyes from the dreary but beautiful sky and searches the crowd. Even though I am so far away, she lands at last on me. Me. Of all people, she chose me to love and wish at every shooting star and lucky penny for. Rain drops tumble down her face and her mascara is running every so slightly, creating the illusion that she is crying black tears. I know she loves me with all her heart, but something keeps her from me. Some storm in her head that I know I will never understand restricts her from dreams and everything she needs.
As she stares at me through small tunnels between groups of people, I can feel her soul. I can feel her hammering pulse and heaving breath and it’s almost as if i can hear her storms. Her love is so dear that it grasps everyone, pulling at heartstrings and ripping me apart.
She is loved, maybe, but she doesn’t know. She knows that she is liked, but she has never believed that someone could love her the way she needs. Love is such a complicated thing, and yet she has figured out every riddle thrown at her, using poetry as an escape from the truth. She just wants to believe that fairies and Wonderland and magic and leave the rest to the businessmen.
She breaks eye contact, looking back at the sky. I didn’t realize that I wasn’t breathing. I inhale the crisp rainy air and exhale, shuttering. Hands in her pockets, head down, she wanders through the corridors, desperately seeking escape. There is no escape, darling, I want to say. This is it. This is life. And it’s cruel.
She used to bury herself in fictional worlds because she can’t handle this one, but she can’t even open a book without bursting into tears, and yet all she wants to do is read. Isn’t that funny? How badly she longs to belong? Her soul is too large for this world, I guess.
She finds herself in a shadowed hallway leading to a harsh brick wall. This is all there is. Her shoulders begin to shake, but no sounds come from her. The storms are already enough sound. I stand at the entrance of the hallway, feet planted firmly beneath me, unwilling to move and comfort her, even though I know she can’t find comfort in anything but me. I see her heaving chest and ache with her, aching for belonging and love and adventure and escape and music and light and comfort and ignorance and calm.
She turns around, wrapping her arms around herself once more. There is no crowd for her eyes to search this time, and it’s like I am her soul magnet. Now here we are, searching each other’s eyes in silence, only feet away from each other, and I’m diving into the windows of her soul and stardust is running through my fingers, drowning me in the golden light of late afternoon sunbeams dancing across her face and glimmering in the chestnut glow of her eyes.
But there are no sunbeams. There is no golden light. I am diving into the windows of her soul and I’m drowning in the roaring ocean and my fingers are desperately flailing in attempts to save myself from the horror of the thunder, shattering whatever hope she has left and the endless rushing of bitter wind, lightning striking her heart and flickering in the umber burn of her eyes.
I suppose she could be anyone, right? Everyone looks fine on top but are dying under the surface. Everyone cries when they reach a dead end. Everyone wants life to be perfect. Everyone wants love and everyone wants the wishes they put on the shoulders of little passing stars to come true. Everyone wants to have angels and fairies looking over their shoulders because God, is this world boring or what? And all we can do is stay here and live.
SRC