17, Still Can't Swim

eleven

there were two children in the four corners of my room.

one wore a cherry blossom pink dress and a tiara on top of her head. she embodies a princess barbie doll carrying a star-shaped magic wand that grants wishes of lowly folks in fairyland. she smiled hope and dreams and new beginnings, she was stars and moon and sun.

the other wasn't special. she wore a denim jumper half bigger than her size because she was too thin to fit on anything her mother buys in garage sales. she wears her new york city cap backwards to hide her hideous red hair. she was a house on fire for she grins mischief and speaks of trouble, she was hurt and pain and reality.

they were born from different mothers and grew up from different doctrines but there seems to be a way to reunite them.

in gentle noons, they like to sunbathe on warm sand, they hear the ocean sing with their waves crashing to the land. sometimes they would race with it, their feet pounding on shore until the glowing ball of light hit their eyes, its brilliance intensifies with a sharp lingering sting, the air crackling with an aching electricity. their vision seared seemingly and the world spun in blur until

there is one child in the four corners of my room.

๓.
delilah