Thinking

My words...
         ...Are much like my thoughts...
                              ...little glue bubbles...
   ..floating up...
             ...with every sentence...
        ...a new paragraph...
              ...floating...
                                       ...almost...
                       ...away.

Bee

Waiting

at the mouth of the garage.

Ten minutes, twenty.

The floor is littered in an array of art supplies, card, paint, glue. Things she fought tooth and knife for.

Checking the computer, still nothing.

A car comes....and pulls into the drive of the house next door.

The drinks are heating up, the cicadas swarm outside,

Laughing.

Finally, one turns up and the project beings.

as they measure, cut and paint she is always asking,

are there more?

is anyone else coming?

I think so, the first girl replies,

but inside she knows it not to be true, and her heart is fast being enclosed in a fist of iron.

One more comes an hour later

and the three girls set to their impossible task with gusto

laughing and sloshing paint everywhere

drinking luke-warm fizzy drinks.

At last it is done.

It stands one meter high

and is a pale cloudy blue

The card-board car

the star of their show

only in the lime light for two minutes

and twenty seconds.

This important piece of the puzzle

is complete

and feeling slightly more whole

the girls part ways

until first bell.

Left

Reading about you

is like a punch in the face.

A slamming sensation of pain; I am left winded, stinging.

At first the story is happy, but oh how naive I was.

I can almost see my twelve year old hands scrawling in that dusty old journal.
All is well, they say.

But come thirteen the truth came out and my world exploded.

You shoved me away, shunned me, it was like 'we' had never existed.

I tried to keep us together. Really, I did. But you had no more need for our friend-ship and I was tossed away like an old plastic bag.  

"I hate you!" I scream into the howling wind. "Damn you and all you've ever stood for, I HATE you!".

The night is cold and the breeze is sharp but I care not. Inside, I am crying like a child, tears cascading down my cheeks. But outside, as I stand in the dark on that lonely hill, I am wearing my poker face.

Fat kids don't cry, do they now, Friend?

But for every time I say I hate you, for every second I see red as you cross my mind,
underneath all the rage is a small, sad voice.

A voice,
that quietly mutters:  
"I miss you...."