Self-Maintenance by Georgina
Buckley
If I sit in myself long enough, the exquisite sound of navy blood
flooding through my cheekbones is heard. If I rage enough, the
silk silence of anger gongs through the entire house and trilling,
horrible remarks stem over my lips and breach the gap to the rest
of the family's ears. My words bat at them like a cat reaching
at a bird, barely touching, but with a deep slice of claw. Their
answers are delivered with just as much razorblade pain as mine,
if not more. The substance of these answers, however, can be likened
to cotton candy. At first they are huge, all encompassing, bright
and cheerful. They dazzle the mind and provide a small sweet crystal
of relief. Then they are licked down to barely anything at all
and leave a cloying, saccharine taste that doesn't satisfy and
only weakens those glass links of trust.
Georgina Buckley
Most of the people who know me call me George, like a boy. I have
just turned sixteen and I am going to live a lot longer.
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