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Song: Fishes, Goblins From Mars
"I don't know what to write," I tell Miss Leah. Everyone has already left and the clock is slowly ticking away time. I stand here and she glances her brown eyes at me from a large book titled, "Stargirl" through thick eyelashes. Though I wrote the most during class, I didn't even glance at the notebook at home.
"Well, I saw you go and sit with people you don't normally hang out with for while now. You can write about that," she offers. I sigh. The bell has rung and everyone has left school, and everything is silent while I think about that. It's so silent while I think that you can hear the paint curling up and fluttering off the wall onto the ground like butterflies that lost their wings.
"I mean they're nice but they were kinda boring," I tell her. "But Dakota seems to like them, so I guess then I like them too, if they make him happy." I curl up my toes in the high top sneakers owned by my older brother, about three sizes too big and three times too not-like-me. I chew on my lip. Unlike most, I don't chew the bottom so that it seems all seductive and stuff. Just the outer corner of my top lip (Note: Please don't ask how that is possible).
She stands up from the desk and walks over to me. "Write whatever you want, I know how you have a way with words." I have a way with words? The way they are written on my paper fast and sloppy, like a little terrier? I'm not that bad at writing sentences, it's just that they seem to fly off my paper and do their own thing, talking about random stuff while I erase and start all over again. That's why Miss Leah is about the only teacher who doesn't hate my works. She says they're 'creative' and that not everyone can understand something so beautiful.
"Oh well. Thanks anyways," I tell her, grabbing my backpack and walking down the long row of red lockers. If words really were to flow on paper, would they be messy like my own, written with random thoughts and strange comparisons, or would they words be like a fish, sleek and fast, beautiful yet not really making sense? I mean, shouldn't fish know not to go for the bait if they live in a pond where fishing is common?
I write on my way home. I mean I'm writing now on my paper, so you are probably like, "I know that". But no, I'm writing in my mind, describing the way the once blue sky quickly changes into a grey stormy evening. The rain reminds me of the ocean, all water that the fish breathe, that dolphins play in with flicks of their tails, and the same water that whales sing songs and a boater hopes to catch the perfect meal for his family.
(Note: This is my poem that I wrote)
Lanterns glow
Reflecting off the water
Like little faeries
And you can hear
Deep down
The whales singing
Their songs of sorrow.
I once let Rosella read my poems. She asked if I was depressed or something because she says all my poems are deep and sad. I don't think they are sad or anything. It's just how the words decide to be, and even though I write them, they seem to take on their own lives and create a story of pure sadness. I can't control the words.
I drop my bag on the couch, next to my brother. He is asleep with a small bottle of beer in his hand. I take it out of his hand, and walk down the road. When I'm a safe distance from waking him up, I throw the bottle far down the road, startling a few stray cats. Then I feel bad, and I walk back down and pick the shards of glass up. The smell of beer soaks into my skin and I run down the road to throw it in a dumpster.
"What took you so long?" My mom asks when I step back into the house. I show her my hands, and somehow she instantly understands. This isn't really the first time I have done that, throwing a bottle then feeling bad and picking the shards up so no little kids cuts themselves or a driver's new car tires don't pop from the glass.
She gently pushes me into the shower, and washes my hands and arms from the beer and small cuts on my hands that ooze a neon red blood.
When she dries them off for me, I look deep into her also blue eyes, and I see how tired she is.
She must have been thinking of Toby again...
A/N: Yeah, compare words to fish Claire, that sounds like a great idea.
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