Six months and Iâm still musing over âgirl crush,â pretty sure that itâs the space in the dark where our lips do not, cannot, never will touch. (If this is my penance, at least let me paint her in a golden blush- to have and to hold, but never call my own).
I think that we are training wheels and hands that bite, she thinks that we are syrup in coffee and friends too busy to hang out. In her version, I find denial in a changing room, while she finds a dress that fits just so and looks so cool. (I hope her boyfriend knows; we are two types of the same fool).
She dates him in daylight now. They are cookie cutter heartbreak- fight, make up, and fight again. She tells me, âsweater season wonât last forever,â but sunshine merely ditches âold hoodieâ for âoversized t-shirt.â I shiver in size six, bite my tongue to keep from telling her that she only looks "great.â (They walk home side by side, and though I do not wish it, I am the juice carton that separates their star-crossed knuckles at breakfast time).
Screw boundaries- I wonder if he grips her hips or tugs her wrist, bruises in the shape of too-big fingertips and a laugh that side-splits. I wonder if sheâs ever thought about me, even by mistake, wonder if she knows that her stupid stupid half smile makes the bones of my shoulders ache. (Why chase after idle boys, when in my eyes, she could be the idolised?)
I class I write the simple hypothesis: her mouth tastes like the lipgloss she âborrowedâ three weeks ago. Or maybe Iâm kidding myself. Maybe sheâd taste like smoke and ashes and him and all wrong, and maybe Iâd hold her like she was china instead of plastic and sheâd get oh so bored.
We test this theory skimming rocks on the sand, bitten hand in bitten hand. He is a figure in the distance, a movie reel of old pictures. She is warm and shines golden, and my heart beats in starts until the spell is broken. (âIâve missed you.â// âYeah, right.â After three cones of vanilla ice cream, she is a mockingbird in flight).
The words âIâm sorry,â are spiders in my throat (and fireflies in her own)- sorry that I care more for soft skin than modern art, sorry that all my cryptic texts ask, beg, plead to return to stuttered starts.
I donât even qualify for experiment- isnât that the worst part? Her exception is tan and tall and sheâs going to kiss her neck in a college bar and leave without looking back, call me and laugh about our common ground. Sheâll use a drunken string of âstrange-envy-hot,â and Iâll play along, pretend like I hide no shame beneath my sheets, conceal no storm between my ribs.
(But in the darkness, I am wrong).