Childhood. Broken by many things.
Easy and fast.
I think the pieces are meant to fester and grow fungus on the floor in the garage where they collect dirt and dust. It even collects the hair from my head when I pull it out. The pile gets bigger the longer my mouth is shut and a pen escapes my grasp.
Oh, blue pen. When will my heart feel as light as when I was cuddles up in bed next to mom? Before she told me to scoot over and give her some space?
Tell me, oh, blue pen, is the door really open? Does the light know how to find the floor of my garage? Will it ever learn to? Is that door I opened the real one, or is that simply a painting hung up on the wall and the memory in my head simply given to me by my good ol' imaginary friend?
Now tell me, blue pen, if the light ever finds my garage floor, yes, even in the back corner, what will I find?
YOU ARE READING
A Girl's Diary
ContoWhat happens when you put a girl who lives on dreams in a place where dreams can't survive? What is a girl anyway, if not a dreamer? If you strip that girl of her dreams, what does she have then? What is she then? She is a woman.
