.schadenfreude
ft. @stilledsouls
she likes to wallow in her sadness. she’s pretty sure one time she read self-pity can be therapeutic.
of course, not all things that are lost are tangible. this hill, this tree she’s sitting under, the swing tire that she hung; they still remain, after all this time. maybe she got rid of the dulled-out pocket knife, but carvings aren’t magically removed once you stop looking at them. she would know.
and, of course, loses don’t need to be tangible for you to feel them. getting older sucks. being a fuck-up hurts too, but only when you think about it. out of sight, out of mind. this is why telenovelas, or bargain bin romance books exist.
but that’s digressing from the point.
below her, the sun languidly bleeds into the landscape of half-forgotten neighborhoods, seemingly in no particular hurry to make its execution clean. was it always like this? they picked this spot because it was barren, but now it feels devoid of all prospective warmth. not all the grass has died, but what remains gleams with a chilly reflective aura of autumn dew.
she doesn’t mean to cry; she’d like it much better if that decision was ultimately left for her to make, but we can’t control everything. in her case, that would be nothing at all. the lines blur. she kicks the ground with the sole of her shoe and finds that it, too, can retaliate. great. now her sneaker is dirty and her bones ache.
and just when she thinks it cannot get worse, a shadow looms over the tree, signifying yet another nuisance to deal with before the day ends. it falters. then, it lingers on in the same spot. the hair on her nape stands with the kind of familiar sense of being watched, being expected to say something.
“god, you can sit here. it’s fine. i promise i don’t bite.”
