(no subject)
the bus comes to a full stop and she gets off. small and fragile, she clutches the top of her bag as if it contains life itself. but she knows fully well that it doesnt, as she gave up dreaming long ago. there is an empty bench on the sidewalk in front of her and she sits in it carefully. and as she does this, her tired knees crack under the pressure and she gives a slight wince. but anyone observing this could tell that the creases she makes beside her eyes at this moment are not lines unknown to her face. she is old. she is old and she is tired. she is nineteen. and she is older than any person should be at that age. her jeans are worn and tearing in certain unfortunate places, but she has never gotten around to replacing them. they are too much in her. her hair falls in pieces around her face. and though this makes her look sad, it does not make her look unkempt. it is as if she has deliberately lain each individual strand in its unusual place, as an artist does a lifeless model he is about to paint. and this is her life. these tired knees, these dying jeans, this fallen hair. and no one knows her story. and no one really cares. and so she sits and waits for a sign that will never come. and fights off hoping that it ever will.