melted

a love letter to distraction

she writes stories rather than essays. to pass the time she sings any song except her solo. when she sits down to do her homework, a voice tempts her away. she is not proud of who she is, but she lives.

she writes love letters to a person she chooses to call distraction, hoping that her day will satisfy him enough. when she tries to start, the words disappear, and she is left with a full pen and an empty mind. she is forced to wonder, but as it becomes too much, distraction comes to take her away. she is aware of her contradiction, distracted from distraction by distraction, but she lives.

she laughs loud in the face of the boy that sings every note she cannot bring herself to reach, she dances by his side, obnoxious, seeking attention. she tries to come up with excuses, but he is a temptation she is unable to resist. she goes home and falls into the familiar embrace distraction holds, but this time he is not alone. his face has changed.

he is quiet in the spotlight, for he knows how actions speak louder than words. what he chooses to say is concise, but she finds it incoherent. he does not push her away, but he does not move closer. he is a stagnant pond with lily pads atop his shoulders, and she is a dragonfly. annoying, constant, yet unable to make an impact. she is squashed under the weight of expectations and he provides little more than a smile.

he wears her lanyard and her hat. that night, distraction takes the shape of a familiar shadow she seeks. it is only found in the night, where she sets her alarms, assuming she can wake up. the majority of it is no dream, but what she can control is usurped by attempts to create lucidity within insanity. she is going insane because of him. she has no clue who she really intends to understand.

she lies about her homework in favor of researching. these papers are not scientific but they provide thrill and reassurance. she searches for a high in the peak of a eureka moment but finds only lows within loading screens, holds on books she attempts to read. it feels like nothing is enough.

she falls deeper into the cycle of reassurance. everything is fine. maybe she does, maybe she doesn't get past this unchanged. she exhausts herself at meetings trying to take her mind off a familiar subject, and feels the tears of the common man fill her eyes as she succumbed to slumber, unwilling to admit the truth. she hopes it is anything other than what she fear, of course she does. why would she want to face them now?

remembering january, she laughs at her stupidity. an attempt to face her fears, the speech said. to make it seem more approachable, more patterned, analyzable. it is february and she debates for every half hour whether or not she should just buy that two-dollar rose, whether or not she should just try to understand herself. she is tasked to write, and write she does, but about anything besides the blank beckoning stare that blankets the vicious demeanor distraction holds. she talks about getting distracted a lot, about how work seems infinite and time is asymptotic as it heads towards zero. she is unwilling to call any of it quits.

they tell her the idea, the writing of a promposal, is good. she brought it up for laughs. she has unwittingly shackled herself to an unattainable goal. she has willingly put herself in the line of fire.

on the bus, the freshman she sits next to has no clue. she laughs, but when she returns home, her heart aches, rhythm irregular, unsure, concerned. she takes her pills, she says she does, and dreams of concoctions that take one sip to make feelings disappear. happiness, sadness, jonah and the whale. spite. passion, pity, fury. even love.

"the story can't be real because love doesn't exist!" her colleague jokes. oh, how right he is.

her friend tells her about a book she read, about how love is unsure. her friend tells her that she has to wait. her friend tells her to strike quickly with hope. all her friends toss opinions like dodgeballs and she lets them hit her. on the sidelines, she is forced to think, and suddenly the wish of catching a ball fervently outweighs the rumination of catching feelings.

why doesn't she ask him? why doesn't she ask why he lets her play the joker to his ace? they discard joker cards in the beginning, but she hangs on. she is unwilling to let go yet equally unwilling to confess her wrongdoings. she feels wrong like this.

she writes love letters in this format, cursing herself and praising the abuse she submits to, willingly stabbing her own back. her stomach hurts and so does her chest, neither of them touched by the blade. when will she stop with the phantom pains? now, she is the girl who cries wolf, who cries until there is nothing left, her castles dissolving in front of her eyes. she stands on shards of dreams she ignored, and they cut the soles of her feet, stinging as each bell tolls. she is overcome by stimuli, and her rubber band snaps. introverts are not the only ones who crumble at the sound of a stampede. she lets herself be trampled under the weight of expectation, unable to see beyond his face.

she hates who she is now. she hates this constant dance, belittling her intelligence. has she changed so much so quickly, or will it all disappear once he is gone? she searches for a home in the eyes of the wanderers, and is left laughing. she laughs until nothing is left to laugh at, and then she cries.

when midnight strikes, he is no prince charming. he is her mind's fairytale alone. she is alone.