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Description
Eyeliner smudges sue sleepless nights for identity theft. I tousle long matted locks of hair protruding from a much abused scalp, but only because I miss the feel of your fingers tangled in them. My skin is drained of color and lacking a typical warmth. Don't misunderstand, I'm nothing if not typical-predictable down to the words and minute, as if my actions are predetermined by some perverse puppeteer and all I can do is follow the direction I am led in. I will roll out of bed forty-three minutes after I slam my alarm clock into silence. I will pull on one of many pairs of jeans that have begun to swallow up my body with extra space, and a t-shirt from the floor that my grandmother probably bought, thinking that trends haven't changed in the last sixty years. I will count the crawling moments between my breaths in uneasy hope that today my lungs will function properly, and I won't gnaw holes in my lower lip with my teeth or scratch at my skin when the clock's ticking begins to heighten my awareness that yes, my heart is pounding too fast and yes, there are still five hours left to stare at the ancient walls and wish you were there to remind me of the process of breathing. I will realise I only have another six minutes until the twenty third time I miss the bus, scramble into the bathroom to brush your taste off of my tongue. Four minutes. Grab my notebook. Throw in bag. Sling over shoulder. Let the weight settle into a less comfortable position so that I can focus on that on the bus instead of how the driver is going a little too fast, and it smells like wet magazines. Three minutes. Slide on sneakers that still fit me, four years later. Tie them tightly in the double knots my brother showed me how to do when I was six. shit! One minute, thirty seconds. I rush from my room into the hallway, past the open bathroom door until I notice a blur of motion and skid to a halt, distractions distractions. Reluctantly I push through the doorway, flick on the light switch. Nothing but cool white counter top. Wary, because we both know what's coming next, I glance up and manage this time to only jump slightly when I catch a girl glancing back. it's a flash of dark brown pillow mussed hair and skin the color of the counter I am suddenly gripping like a lifeline. I take in her thin face, squared off with a stubborn chin, a pair of pale pink chewed, chapped lips, a small straight nose, sprinkled with freckles and brown eyes framed with dark circles at war with eyeliner, eyebrows too thick to be considered socially acceptable and bangs that can't seem to decide which way to go. Her eyes make contact with mine-suddenly she smiles knowingly nastily mockingly. I decide she reminds me of a ghost. I would like to disappear. I part my lips to ask her what the fuck she's looking at, but she seems to want to say something, too. "What are you?" She asks, quietly. I mouth the words along with her. "Hah. You know me." I whisper back and she seems amused yet serious all at once, like she knows all the answers to the questions spinning through my head. We stare at each other and the moment mounts expectations fluttering in my rib cage like crows wings. A familiar rumbling surprises me, and I begin to feel dread dredging up in my throat. "Fuck!" but the damage is done-I missed the bus again.

Description
Eyeliner smudges sue sleepless nights for identity theft. I tousle long matted locks of hair protruding from a much abused scalp, but only because I miss the feel of your fingers tangled in them. My skin is drained of color and lacking a typical warmth. Don't misunderstand, I'm nothing if not typical-predictable down to the words and minute, as if my actions are predetermined by some perverse puppeteer and all I can do is follow the direction I am led in. I will roll out of bed forty-three minutes after I slam my alarm clock into silence. I will pull on one of many pairs of jeans that have begun to swallow up my body with extra space, and a t-shirt from the floor that my grandmother probably bought, thinking that trends haven't changed in the last sixty years. I will count the crawling moments between my breaths in uneasy hope that today my lungs will function properly, and I won't gnaw holes in my lower lip with my teeth or scratch at my skin when the clock's ticking begins to heighten my awareness that yes, my heart is pounding too fast and yes, there are still five hours left to stare at the ancient walls and wish you were there to remind me of the process of breathing. I will realise I only have another six minutes until the twenty third time I miss the bus, scramble into the bathroom to brush your taste off of my tongue. Four minutes. Grab my notebook. Throw in bag. Sling over shoulder. Let the weight settle into a less comfortable position so that I can focus on that on the bus instead of how the driver is going a little too fast, and it smells like wet magazines. Three minutes. Slide on sneakers that still fit me, four years later. Tie them tightly in the double knots my brother showed me how to do when I was six. shit! One minute, thirty seconds. I rush from my room into the hallway, past the open bathroom door until I notice a blur of motion and skid to a halt, distractions distractions. Reluctantly I push through the doorway, flick on the light switch. Nothing but cool white counter top. Wary, because we both know what's coming next, I glance up and manage this time to only jump slightly when I catch a girl glancing back. it's a flash of dark brown pillow mussed hair and skin the color of the counter I am suddenly gripping like a lifeline. I take in her thin face, squared off with a stubborn chin, a pair of pale pink chewed, chapped lips, a small straight nose, sprinkled with freckles and brown eyes framed with dark circles at war with eyeliner, eyebrows too thick to be considered socially acceptable and bangs that can't seem to decide which way to go. Her eyes make contact with mine-suddenly she smiles knowingly nastily mockingly. I decide she reminds me of a ghost. I would like to disappear. I part my lips to ask her what the fuck she's looking at, but she seems to want to say something, too. "What are you?" She asks, quietly. I mouth the words along with her. "Hah. You know me." I whisper back and she seems amused yet serious all at once, like she knows all the answers to the questions spinning through my head. We stare at each other and the moment mounts expectations fluttering in my rib cage like crows wings. A familiar rumbling surprises me, and I begin to feel dread dredging up in my throat. "Fuck!" but the damage is done-I missed the bus again.