a cacophony of high pitched screaming, terse warnings and hushed tones, yet my eyes casually flick over to her.
she's ensconced her heart in a fibre glass shell cratered with pockmarks, marred with deprecating self esteem, envisioning herself as a dispassionate girl with impassive globules held in those eye sockets, roiling emotions imprisoned and smothered.
there she went again, plaintive sighs exhaled, her eraser poised between her fingers and she gave the paper a good rub. I guess if that white sheet of paper had anything in common with me, it would be the tendency to allow markings to percolate the surface.
not all traces of my affection could go unnoticed.
a keen pair of eyes could discern authentic love from falsified ones.
and maybe I had trepidation towards unrequited love. There aren't any words explicit to accurately describe the hollowness in your lungs as your heart swells and is pained.
It's not the needles that pricks the heart you wear on your sleeve, or a knife twisted in your gut, it's acrid pain flowing.
the girl who currently held the heartstrings were caressing them gently, careening hopes skyward. she laughed wholeheartedly, turning the pages to another alternate world I'd like to draw her into. A shared storybook which I had borrowed blessed me with fortuitous ramifications - an opportunity to entertain her.
she swept her raven cropped hair upwards, pausing indefinitely to check the words and sketch one of those mini figures with enough features to represent the proper anatomy of a human being, lacking in the aesthetic department.
Feeling jocular, I clicked on the Friction Pilot Pen currently grasped in my hand and slid the paper towards me. It was horizontal, ordinary foolscap, full of physics formulas whoever "Michelle" was would be unimpressed.
but I guess I'll take up this opportunity to annoy her and allow her to proffer me one of those rare moments in her life she's completely focused on me.
" OI WHAT YOU DOING "
she tugs on the ill written birthday card gingerly, and a smirk threatens to play on my lips.
" there. my handwriting is aesthetic, confirm helps your card look better."
" This makes it look worse. "
the undercurrents of sacarsm runs heavily in her words, and I bite back a laugh. Mr seah wouldn't like it if I suddenly interrupted.
" Ouch, you hurt me."
Placing a hand on my chest playfully, I wear a hurt expression and play pretend. She scoffs and goes back to scribbling on the card with occasional discombobulated thoughts filling in between the minutes and I continue stealing peeks at her handiwork, eyes focused more on the artist than the art.
she's worth it.
sort of.
to break through the embattled woman with an armored hull and a jaundiced view of this corrupted world,
a unlikely heroine,
easing her into normalcy.
I guess I fell in love for her as her.
Not a dieting magician, or a voluptuous beauty,
Just an ingenious figure who lived as an abnormal
YOU ARE READING
Lost
Poetry" for all eternity, she was blind. But what she could see, was far beyond eyesight could view. " A couple of on the spot one shots and poems, and a fanfic or two. please tell me the artist of the cover if you know! I'll credit him/her! Updated b...
