I've been writing a lot lately, actually, but it's all college app work. Not that it's not fiction (well, most isn't) and not that it's not prosey (all of it is. Plain narratives are for suckers), but I can't share it online because of obvious reasons. Anywho, I wrote this to fill my writing portfolio but it totally got away from me, so you all get it.
Word count: 506
her knuckles are white from hanging on far too tight
She wonders if you can wear holes through words the way she has with her favorite shoes, so beaten and bruised into conforming submission that they no longer squeak in complaint as she forces them down marble halls. The question, in her mind, is if she can keep talking and talking and if she'll ever use up a reservoir of words and suddenly be left with a dry mouth and nothing more to say. The real question is what would happen if she went silent. She doesn't know how to ask that and she doesn't know how to answer it, so she'll beg a response from the wrong people for the wrong problem, words spilling from her mouth so quickly that she can feel them filling her lungs.
This is drowning in existence and it sounds overly important and overly terrifying, but the scariest bit of it all is its silence, you'd never know it was coming.
She wonders if she can think herself out of this mind, this moving-too-fast mind, this jumping-to-conclusions mind, this mind that's far too old for her young soul. She tries to think about the notion of thinking, but gives up and wallows instead.
They say that this is being a teenager. That you're only young when you toss "I love you"s like dimes on a sidewalk and youth is in the solidarity of feeling alone, together. She doesn't buy that, but maybe that's because all the change that was once in her pockets litters the streets from all the boys she's ever lied to.
She thinks she should wear a warning sign around her neck. A cardboard that says "Beware, I am toxic. Beware, I'll tell you I have asthma and then run faster than the wind for the hills." Or maybe it should say, "Beware, I like to pretend my shoulders are made of iron but I'm constructed out of glass, actually. So if you break me, be sure to sweep the shards under a rug so they do not bloody the feet of the next fool to tread my way." But really it would say, "to all the boys I will ever say I love, I'm sorry."
Her shoes have holes in them and her pockets are empty. Her head is bowed with the weight of the sign around her neck and she keeps gasping for air like she can't catch a breath. This is youth. She opens her mouth but there are no words because sometimes that's just the way life goes, so she closes her lips and her eyes and pretends that she can get some sleep.