CW #3 - God Loves Me in Inappropriate Ways
‘you shall above all things be glad and young.
For if you’re young, whatever life you wear
It will become you;and if you are glad
Whatever’s living you will yourself become.
Girlboys may nothing more than boygirls need:
i can entirely her only love.’
-E.E. Cummings
Sometimes, I have my doubts. My father (who up until now cried only when I pinned my torn stuffed animals to the wall) stepped into another room, turned the lights off, and let himself blink away the memories. (Memories concerning my well being: the hours in the hospital, the saline in my veins, the therapy sessions, and suicide attempts, the smell of vomit and peanut soup below the state-line. Perhaps I didn’t give him enough to work with.)
The night before I had been drugged up on anxiety. This is an addiction they don’t tell you about in D.A.R.E. Why had I even bothered to fill the tank up? Why did I cry when Wendy’s was closed? He made me ravioli when I got home.
“Where were you today?”
“Work. The theatre.” A lie. I had gone to see my girlfriend.
“How did it go?”
“Well,” I said.
I love her, I thought. The purity of such a sentiment erases any harm. I love her. “Very well, actually.”
In the morning he asked, “Are you high?”
‘I’d rather learn from one bird how to sing,
Than teach ten thousands stars how not to dance.’
(Peter Park bought me Wendy's last night.)
For if you’re young, whatever life you wear
It will become you;and if you are glad
Whatever’s living you will yourself become.
Girlboys may nothing more than boygirls need:
i can entirely her only love.’
-E.E. Cummings
Sometimes, I have my doubts. My father (who up until now cried only when I pinned my torn stuffed animals to the wall) stepped into another room, turned the lights off, and let himself blink away the memories. (Memories concerning my well being: the hours in the hospital, the saline in my veins, the therapy sessions, and suicide attempts, the smell of vomit and peanut soup below the state-line. Perhaps I didn’t give him enough to work with.)
The night before I had been drugged up on anxiety. This is an addiction they don’t tell you about in D.A.R.E. Why had I even bothered to fill the tank up? Why did I cry when Wendy’s was closed? He made me ravioli when I got home.
“Where were you today?”
“Work. The theatre.” A lie. I had gone to see my girlfriend.
“How did it go?”
“Well,” I said.
I love her, I thought. The purity of such a sentiment erases any harm. I love her. “Very well, actually.”
In the morning he asked, “Are you high?”
‘I’d rather learn from one bird how to sing,
Than teach ten thousands stars how not to dance.’
(Peter Park bought me Wendy's last night.)