Somewhere
Somewhere a girl sways in a grown boy’s apartment, brushing her teeth and listening to the voice of another man echoing off the tile. She looks in the mirror, wondering if she is a good enough woman. Wondering if the black specs on her heart are growing. Wondering if she is ruined. Slowly falling flat. An opened can of soda losing its carbonation. A bag of chips going stale. The man in her phone speaker says she is perfect just the way she is. The boy is laying in his bed without a care in the world while she envisions him serenading her. Telling her she is still as beautiful as she was before. The hum of the radiator confirms her soul is perfect, and the flicker of the bathroom light says that he is in the other room thinking of her skin.
A little girl was just killed in a game of Kiss, Marry, Kill. So tonight, she will watch films of teen romance and see that one day she will be worth something to someone.
A few other girls curled up under their covers that same night watching Peter Kavinsky win over Laura Jean. Just as their mothers watched the same tales unfold between Molly Ringwald and Andrew McCarthy.
More than a few girls are clinging to harsh words that soften in her mind. Like frosted flakes in milk. They sit soaking, ripening. A cruel litany can turn into a sweet song. A song made just for her. But soon, it turns into mush. The sweet milk curdles and the potter’s beautiful bowl is enveloped with a new fuzzy ecosystem.
—
A girl woke up in the arms of a boy, not the one who had just starred in her dreams, but someone else entirely. He clung to her like she was one of his fragile trophies. She lays there wondering if he was holding on so tight while dreaming of someone else just as she did.
When returning to the bedroom it was as if she was someone else to him, replaced by a pillow in his arms. Yet, she struggled to care as the sun rose through his paper blinds. Slipping back in bed to play pretend.
An idealistic pure view of love has become something phony. Something corrupt. Something that will hurt soon enough. And that hurt will be real. It will meet her somewhere she will never be able to turn back from.
The girls will continue to use poetry and make-believe tales as a crutch. They will continue to be content with so little.
A shove on the playground turns into fondness.
A collarbone kiss will become a confession.
A stroke of her hair will become a picket fence yard roaming with children.
His visible power over her will become proof she is his.
Desire becomes worship.