Monday, March 5, 2012

shadow oak (part deux)

i like writing. so i'm writing, like, part two of shadow oak. while listening to radiohead. so, yeah. we'll see how this turns out. also, "videotape" is the best song ever. so is "reckoner." basically, the album "in rainbows" is one of the best things that has ever happened to me.
also. idea from clarissa.

They are their own group, secluded, whispering, again, but this time in a corner of the gym. The air is heavy with humidity, even though it's twelve degrees outside.
I am separate from them, because, as hard as I try, I can't become separate from myself.
I am alone in this room full of bodies and sweat and yells, all the voices filling up any space that was left. It seems to vast during the day, this room. But when they try to fit the whole world into it, expecting everyone to fall in like perfect puzzle pieces, it is suddenly small, smaller.
I am their piece out of place. I am the piece that will not fit anywhere, no matter how hard they try to crush my sides in and put me somewhere. Anywhere.
A pop song is playing. A screeching voice that fills up my ears and tears at my brain. A voice so ridden with soundboards and technology that it's no longer a voice- only a robot.
I have three square yards, three square yards that are my own. But still, her breath makes its way over to me.
I can tell it's hers.
She is dancing with her name, moving with him, their identical eyes staring into each other.
Their identical eyes, showing that they are meant to be together.
Showing that I am not supposed to be here at all.
Not here, in a high school gym.
Not here, in this high school.
Not here, with her.
But she is the half of me that no one sees.
So I came, I followed her when she told me to, I came when she tried to apologize. I came when she tried to apologize. I wanted, so badly, for everything she said to be true.
I try to breathe the thick air, try to filter out the Pepsi that floats in it. I ignore the whiskey on the breath of the guy who walks past me, stumbling a little bit. There are teachers at every door, and still they miss this.
I watch her hair, behind her, as she moves to the slow-dance song that just came on, the one that the group of giggling freshman girls must have requested. They dance with each other with smiles in their eyes, not meaning to, bu turning me into a joke. The world does this sometimes, wraps me into a package and calls me what it will.
Even though the world has no idea.
Her name is looking at her like she's the only person in the world.
She is.

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