(no subject)
For Jess. My Cherokee Bat.
I'm sorry I misplaced you.
We used to feed off of each other. I gave you depth and a mix tape of Ani DiFranco and Loreena McKennitt, you gave me clothes that fit. Violet and CLaire. Suns and Moons and stupid movies and writing scripts for horror movies. Annoying each other and staring at each other and standing off to the side while you kept dating beautiful boys. They liked you. I was your taller lesser older friend with the nose. You were stick blonde hair and a cleft pallate that made your face forever babydollish.
We were driving on summer nights, windows rolled down and your car ever so blue and shocking. I avoided being there with you, resenting being the taller uglier older friend. But when I caved we always had more fun than I thought I was able to have. It took your poking and prodding. But you brought out the part of me I buried when I was thirteen and hurt by girls just like you. Sister-cousin. Crazyface. Putting up with my scathing remarks on the tiny clothes you tried to buy. We both knew each others' heart. I knew you were good. I knew you were smart. I knew you were insecure.
You were the last one to leave me here. One last ride from camping in the woods, me wearing your short shorts and hoop earrings with the charms, you putting in the mix cd I made before I died. It was evening in the parking lot in Manchester, laughing over sodas with some beautiful shaggy boys with backpacks, we were the pretty girls with freckles and swimsuit tan lines...your bikini, my ever-so-modest one-piece. Arms over shoulders. We drove back to fireflies and one last protesting on my part of your music tastes. You left in the foggy camping pancakes morning.
Make friends there. But don't replace me. Because in my life someday there will be bookish boys and cafes and boots clicking through the mall. But there will never be another Jess.
~ Amy
I'm sorry I misplaced you.
We used to feed off of each other. I gave you depth and a mix tape of Ani DiFranco and Loreena McKennitt, you gave me clothes that fit. Violet and CLaire. Suns and Moons and stupid movies and writing scripts for horror movies. Annoying each other and staring at each other and standing off to the side while you kept dating beautiful boys. They liked you. I was your taller lesser older friend with the nose. You were stick blonde hair and a cleft pallate that made your face forever babydollish.
We were driving on summer nights, windows rolled down and your car ever so blue and shocking. I avoided being there with you, resenting being the taller uglier older friend. But when I caved we always had more fun than I thought I was able to have. It took your poking and prodding. But you brought out the part of me I buried when I was thirteen and hurt by girls just like you. Sister-cousin. Crazyface. Putting up with my scathing remarks on the tiny clothes you tried to buy. We both knew each others' heart. I knew you were good. I knew you were smart. I knew you were insecure.
You were the last one to leave me here. One last ride from camping in the woods, me wearing your short shorts and hoop earrings with the charms, you putting in the mix cd I made before I died. It was evening in the parking lot in Manchester, laughing over sodas with some beautiful shaggy boys with backpacks, we were the pretty girls with freckles and swimsuit tan lines...your bikini, my ever-so-modest one-piece. Arms over shoulders. We drove back to fireflies and one last protesting on my part of your music tastes. You left in the foggy camping pancakes morning.
Make friends there. But don't replace me. Because in my life someday there will be bookish boys and cafes and boots clicking through the mall. But there will never be another Jess.
~ Amy