The skin you're in

My monster

Suddenly my ribs feel normal again and the cold smooth surface of his boot leaves my side. I'm grateful knowing his size 11 foot is rightfully in its place again. My cheeks dry up like the Sahara and the palms of my sweating, trembling hands suddenly find my face again just as my knees push themselves off the dirty carpet. Peek-a-boo reinvents itself in my fingers when the ripples on my cheek evaporate into my skin one by one. My head whips back around, facing the beast whose tense shoulders ease into position, and clenched fist returns to his side. My monster reaches for me and we waltz across the room. He takes three steps back and I follow his lead, taking two steps forward. Again I follow him and free fall into his arms, closing my mouth to suppress the ugly words now scrambling to find their way back down my throat. The couch caresses us both and our eyes meet just as the movie beings again. I see my monster partially in disguise with soft hands that were as hard as bricks. I notice that all this time the screaming turned to muffled gibberish as if two seashells glued themselves to my ears. I’ve never heard anything more peaceful in my life.

The monster returns to his cave resuming hibernation and the innocent girl outside of his hideout retracts her clean fist from the cold door and returns her hand to her pocket. She slumps back down the stairs and nestles herself into her adjusted driver’s seat, puts the car in drive and reverses out of his neighborhood.

Salt & Pepper

 That Christmas was the best Christmas I can remember. That was when I met my best friend. Her long blonde hair, baby blue eyes and precious little voice. She never left my side. Sophie didn't leave me...Instead, I was the one to abandon her. I grew distant from her, and after 10 years of an amazing friendship, I left. I left my safe haven of sweet dreams and play dates, and entered into the dark holes and wicked spells of twisted teens. I no longer cared to see, or speak to Sophie, and I didn't want her to follow me, even when my mom assured me it was too early to let her go. Some days I utterly and totally missed my friendship with her. But I couldn't go back. I couldn't drag her with me to sleepovers anymore, or go shopping for clothes, but believe me when I say I felt a great longing to reach out to her. I wanted to push everyone and everything away just so I could rekindle my friendship; my sisterhood with her. But that was it. All those days of pumpkin patch adventures, and trips to Krispy Kreme were vanished into thin air and I couldn't get them back. Every now and then I get a glimpse of her dry, short blonde hair merely separated into pigtails, wrapped in her favorite Christmas sweater, and it instantly brings me back to the good old days of Nicho and Sophie. I wish I could tell her why I left, and I pray she'd understand. But for now I'll have to leave it to the occasional spring cleaning to see her. If I had never received that perfect doll when I was four years old, I wouldn't be the person I am today. So, thank you, Sophie. Thank you for holding on even when I wanted to let go. 

beauty's deception

Each tiny peg strides through my curls and kinks. Ripping apart the strands that have a bond too strong to be broken. One...two...three at a time raking my scalp from top to bottom, separating my freshly washed, coconut scented locks. After what seems like hours later, I've finally accepted that my hair will not cooperate, and I give up on my lion's mane, taking a break to rest my arms. But why do I spend so much time on my hair every morning? Who am I impressing? No one knows what I look like with knotted, sopping wet hair. Or what is hard for even ME to look at after waking up from a long night's sleep. They don't know my hair like I do. All they know are these tiny plastic sticks, breaking my hair. People expect us to look presentable every day, but who are we fooling? They're all the same as me. Looking in the mirror with awful bed head. But we continue to scrape our heads, and thread our fine hairs through the many bristles attached to the brush. I for one, am no fan of this animal with claws, but I do continue to look for other's approval. Do you?

Lost

I've been lost for just about 17 years now. Not in a typically tragic manner of being stranded without food or shelter, but instead, lost inside of myself. I don't have a single ounce of direction. I couldn't tell you where I've been, and I certainly have no clue where I'm going...being lost is a part of me. Yes, just like any other four year old kid, I wandered away from my mom in a grocery store, but that only sparked the rest of my existence. Who knew that starting at the bread isle and ending up surrounded by towers of milk and cheese would have been a glimpse into my hazy future. Maybe I'll find my way home, or maybe I'll be lost forever.