Adolescent; just girls.

She came home today. 

I hadn't seen her in weeks; I don't know what I was expecting- she looked exactly the same. Her hair shorn with house scissors, jeans worn, shirt short. Even her skin was ill-fitting. We moved to Cavite recently, she reminded me, I can't wait til' I turn eighteen so I can get a haircut from someone other than my mom. She spoke in straight english but her words were clumsy, constant yet fumbling. 


We stood outside for the first fifteen minutes of the church service as I listened to her talk about her life, which was leaps and bounds more eventful than mine. She smiled a lot as she confessed her crimes, sins casually thrown into the furnace. I only go to house parties in the day; sometimes she sits on the bed and watches me smoke so when she drinks, I let her. There's nothing I could have said to faze her- already a soldier at seventeen- so I told her about my friends. Satisfaction when the shock registered. I can't believe you guys share things that personal. I told her about the perks of befriending writers. 

As we sat down in church, our conversation continued on touch screens. She handed me her Samsung, read this. Her girlfriend texted her seven times when she said good morning: an homage to the words 'I love you', a redundancy of the promise 'I'll always be there', and a violation of every 'I just need some space' ever said. She'd gone through so much more than me and yet is convinced that my advice is worth something, because for some reason I'm supposed to be good at this. 

Her girlfriend is six years older and is holding down a job, travels approximately two hours to see her in secret, and only on the weekends. Her girlfriend is not nearly as rough, not nearly as repressed as she is. She's convinced she's found herself a saint; that she, violent, lacks the tenderness it means to be good. I just can't control myself. There is an animal in everyone. 

We've known each other since we were in grade school; I remember scaling balconies with her. We'd run from the authorities and rub ourselves gray with dust, running and hiding and snickering about getting away. Now she smokes, we all have our vices - it's no excuse but I didn't say anything. Now she runs from bigger things, from the restrictions of living in her matriarchal household, being unable to rise against. Passive aggressive drinking, smoking, and sex and sex and sex. I didn't choose to be like this, she says about her sexuality. I just am. Usufruct to self-destruction as seen fit, or unconsciously ignored. 

I can come out to the world, everyone except my mom. Caught once and beaten blue. She says I'll go to hell.

In the middle of church, she left to pee for fifteen minutes. My girlfriend called. Just checking up. She is looking for more than a seventeen year old can give of herself, confidante confused for something lasting. She declared love and concern so openly; reading a conversation was walking in on intimacy, as if a dark room at dawn. They were clearly in different places. I don't know if I can, she's not going to want to hear it. It's not the age disparity; they just seemed to want different things. I told her that she should address that, but that it was her decision, not mine. 

We exited after the closing prayer. She said something as we descended the stairwell in cheery disposition. My dad slept at our house last night. He hasn't done that in two years. My brother doesn't talk to me; I try but he just stares or nods or shakes his head. I want to tell her she's brave just for caring enough to try, but I don't. She goes on. 

She's resilient in her domestic confinement, unyielding to her mother's demands. It would be wrong to be condescending; she was capable; she could manage. We stood against the railing overlooking the mall's first floor where a sea of heads had washed in from the outgoing service. With an arm on the rail, she leaned on one leg in her old sneakers, pants that had seen better days, and a shirt that predated our college years. Smile worn graciously. 

I hugged her before I left. 

Next week, okay?

Teensy little update.

This isn't really a writing thing, it's just kind of fyi

Smother Me

Four years ago, this song was something sweet. Four years ago, this was ice skating in the summer and remembering the school year that came before. It was looking forward and wanting someone, wanting them and not being able to admit it to yourself. It was a request and a command. It was a mist and a wind and the waters that stirred beneath it.

This was something you played when you thought of him and something he played when he thought of you -- the piano was delicate, like the strings that held you together.

It was one of the many songs he monopolized. Now you can't listen to any of them without being overcome by an all-consuming wave of nostalgia. You never ached for him but he was a good thought, a good thought that did not resonate, just relapsed. 

You replay the idea of him over and over in your head, fumble with it awkwardly before putting it down and setting it aside, hiding it on a high up shelf hoping next time, you won't be able to reach it. 

+++

A few weeks ago, this song was something stinging. Now, someone else's face comes to mind. The thought of him makes your blood electric -- it's stronger than something built four years ago. It pushes and pushes and demands to be felt. 

The piano is persuasive. It moves and it promises, it begs and it wishes. It's no longer something you want to preserve, it's something you want to achieve. A future you know you want, a future with a boy who is surely good and right (though possibly not for you). 

Your breathing changes when he's around. You smile more. You make no sense. You're losing him and you know this and though you try to be at peace, but it nudges you in your sleep. It nudges you into dreaming -- where is he going, where has he gone.

You touch the idea of him carefully and it sends shivers through you. You keep it close to your heart so you never forget what it was like: the few moments you had with him. It hurts like the concrete pavement that's going to kill you (don't look away); but it's not falling, just flying in reverse. His memory holds you up, away into the earth.