Not Weak, Just Stronger

Chapter 12: Be Still And Know That I Am With You

*FLASHBACK*

"I am a patient the doctors neglect operating on. Well, they would have already if I weren't so stubborn when it comes to opening up. It's like my body remembers the last time it received that command and refuses to do it again. I'm staring blankly at the ceiling with a few cracks in it as if it were a mirror. If I stare long enough, I start to make out shapes and figures in the cracks that tell stories I often forget because I look away too quickly and abandon their existence. Afraid to look at them for too long—worried that I might become those cracks that are the aftermath of each story. This is a mirror after all. But what if my eyes are playing tricks on me? Are those stories real, or am I just making them up? I can see them. I can even remember what it looks like if I close my eyes. But how come they're a little bit distorted and never the same each time I open them and return?"

"To the picture someone painted for me with the colors of my childhood, it seems so grim now that I realize you weren't so kind to my canvas, and that those weren't the colors I wanted or chose. You mixed the paints and made a point of getting rid of individuality, but I can still see the original color and freedom of those you robbed it from. You wanted us all to be the same—confused when trying to remember who we were before we were changed forever. I remember. I've been watching the paint dry for too long, careful not to touch it because I don't want to further damage what's already been done, or relive every stroke it took to make it look the way that it does. Though, sitting in silence for what forever feels like can be quite deafening enough to make me forget the sound of my own voice and how to use it. I'm still learning how to use it. Somedays, when it gets too quiet, and my eyes have nothing better to focus on, I go back to all the so-called lovely colors that make me feel dirty. I go back and think...everyone has a way of expressing themselves. Maybe this was yours. A painter in the making wanting to find something innocent to practice on—and what is blank has not been touched yet, so in this case, I was perfect for you."

The students in the auditorium snapped their fingers in response to Gigi's poem, but Normani was the one to clap and give a standing ovation. She didn't really know Gigi, except for the fact that they shared the same algebra class in freshman year of high school. But something about the sandy blonde made her want to get to know her and hopefully become friends. So when Gigi shyly dismissed herself from the stage and a new poet took her spot to perform, Normani was excused from her seat and went to the far left side of the aisle to catch up to her.

"Hey. Sorry to stop you on your way out but—"

"It's okay," Gigi smiled faintly, brushing her hand over her right arm. "You can join me."

Normani returned the smile and nodded. They both walked out together, claiming they needed to drink some water. When stopping at the water fountain, Normani pushed the button for Gigi to lean over, tuck her hair behind her ear, and drink.

"I just wanted to say that I really love your poem. Really, it was so honest and beautiful and I can't believe you're only 14 with a mind like that. Your metaphors, the diction, the imagery, everything just...blew me away!" Normani enthused.

"Thank you," Gigi revealed a set of pearly whites when she grinned and stopped drinking. "Thank you so much, I was hoping someone would like it. Do you understand it?"

"Is it a true story?"

"Yes."

"Then I understand it. More than you know."

Gigi shyed away and twisted her toe on the floor the way she always did when she was nervous. Her voice was small, "You've been through that too before?"

Normani pressed her lips together and nodded slowly, confirming. "I have. And I think you're so brave going up there to tell your story the best way you probably can. I envy you."