adrift

i see them all the time. the wounded girls. in their summer clothes, bags in hand. wandering the streets with their hearts on their sleeves, their heartbreak on their faces. i walk among them, moving in the same direction, but apart. separate. above.

or so i thought.

it drifts in, you know ... the doubt, the insecurity, the fear, the ache ... like the ocean you can't see, but you can smell. it drifts in ... creating a storm in my brain. making me angry and sullen. i breathe fire.

it drifts in ... when the things that are momentous to me are of little moment to others. when i catch a glimpse of the life that was slapped away. when the ghosts climb in my buggy. when i realize i'm a ripple, and not the tidal wave i'd hoped to be.

it drifts in ... and the words won't come. or come in fits and starts, like my breath. it drifts in and my tongue dissolves into a pillar of salt. i close my eyes and put my guard up. i practice not loving you. to keep it at bay. i sting as i lick my own wounds.

i walk home in the heavy evening air. a long walk. unwelcome tonight. my eyes, bee-stung from crying and aching with the newness of it all.

(i have to admit, i find my own weakness embarrassing.)

i come upon another wounded girl, parked too far from home and waiting for the light to change. (aren't we all waiting for the light to change?)

'break up with your boyfriend, too?' she asks.

'he's not my boyfriend,' i say.

and she laughs. loud. long. surprising us both.

and just for a fleeting moment, like lightning hanging in the summer sky, i am myself again. the girl who makes people laugh. the girl with the perfect hair who holds hands and listens to sad stories and who makes things better.

and the corner girl, she'll never know me any differently. which is good. because as she walks away, laughing still, i feel you catch in my throat. and i can smell the ocean again.