Dedicated To

* ~ *

Halfway around the world is far away, but your words
( green. sincere. curious. )
close the gap.
fill the hole.
bridge the link.

Or so I dare to hope. I dare to hope for so many things.

Unattainable, yes: wishful thinking, fantasies, I know- so laugh.
Laugh at the child who dares to dream,
down on her knees ( fold your hands )
behind shut eyes ( bow your head ),
praying that her dreams will come true.

Won't you be the morning star she wishes on and grant her wish?
Won't you be the guardian angel she prays to and answer her prayer?

There is that voice again, haunting as always. Biting cold, scalding hot, but she has learned to defend herself against Hurt. The girl crouches at the doorway of her bedroom and presses her ear to the thin crack between wood and floor.

She listens. She shouldn't, but she does. Stubborn girl.

I set myself up for disappointment all the time and that's saying something,
seeing as how I have too much time to myself.
Too much time
to feel
too much pain.

It's almost masochistic, really. Unintentionally, of course.

Piercing blow after piercing blow ( only to me. she is that way, only to me. ) of guilt.
Suddenly vulnerable, flesh exposed under broken armour, she backs away.
One step,
that's not true, of denial.
Two steps,
fuck what you think. fuck who you are, of defiance.

She regrets. She should have known that flaming arrows melt ice, but she didn't. Stupid girl.

I know this is my fault.
The awareness is bitter, like poison that I don't need to drink, to taste. Vile.
Blame me, it's easier this way: instant damnation.
Forgive me, it's harder that way: strive for salvation.

A flawed statue of hardened clay makes the sculptor flinch.
A ruined painting of slipped-faulty brush strokes makes the artist wince.

I am I am I am
( mistakes of my own )

but

you are you are you are
( apologies on my behalf )

so

is it really so hard to see why I look up to you?

I want them taken down, she says.

The girl is determined and her decision is unalterable, her will, unshakeable. Words appear on the window, as dark blue and pale green text battle it out on a white, cyber canvas.

Won't you atleast consider re-editing them? you ask.

There is an answer to that question. It glares at her, hard and blatant like the headlights of a truck flashing at a thunderstruck doe, rooting her to the spot. Don't move, it might go away.

She pauses. She should have predicted you would ask such a thing, but she didn't. Silly girl.

No.

I won't try to talk you out of it but I'm curious. Why do you want to have them taken down? We thought they were great.

Her fingers freeze as brown eyes survey the screen. Pictures flash back and forth behind the window, and the girl is momentarily distracted by the wallpaper of a man dressed in a full-length trench coat fading away to make room for a woman clothed in shiny vinyl. Her gaze is hidden behind a pair of dark-tinted shades and her mouth is set in a thin line that gives nothing away.

If I dodge the question, will you forget about it?

The girl is smiling, now.

Nope, sorry.

The girl hopes you are smiling too.

I do not lurk in the shadows. I just prefer the shroud of darkness to blinding light.
I do not smirk at the destruction of buildings and towers. I just don't care enough to shed tears.
I do not hold people off at arm's length in scorn. It's just that the mask of nonchalance is all I have.
I am not evil; simply wrong, in so many ways.

And what the spirit is far too weak to admit
the soul is only too willing to punish.

Understand me. With battered wings, I cannot hope to fly but the angel hasn't fallen yet. Talk to me.

I have to go.

It makes sense. You have a life that calls to you with a name the girl has yet to learn. The clock sitting atop her desk tells a four-digit lie; her sun sets as yours rises and less than a minute is all she has left.

Okay... remember to take them down, won't you?

Tick tock, tick tock. The clock counts down the seconds.

Don't worry about it, I will -

Tick tock, tick tock. The girl struggles with her emotions, failing as traces of loneliness blink at the corners of her eyes in the form of held-back tears. Shallow. Ankle-deep. She finds that she doesn't care.

It's so easy to fall into nobody cares about me when you're down. And yet...


- but I'd still like to know why you want me to. Sometimes, we worry about you girls and when people sound upset, we want to make sure that they're okay. You can email me, if you feel comfortable talking about it.

That is all it took, that last line, the last set of hasty words typed into a keyboard that exists oceans away from where the girl sits, stunned ( a sharp jolt ). Touched ( a feather-light graze ).

I'll think about it... but... thanks.

I've thought about it.
This poem is written.
An explanation is posted,
where you can see it:
if you find it. / if you look for it.

The girl wants you to know she remembers that conversation.
It meant too much to her for her to forget it.


Halfway around the world is far away but your words
( green. concerned. warm.)
close the gap.
fill the hole.
bridge the link.

So _ _ _?

Thank you.

* ~ *

finished: May 28, 2003