Tuesday, August 09, 2005

For some reason, I remember the nights better than the days.

Maybe it's because the days were full of hiding out, of turning my watch back and going home by the broken streetlight. They were days and days of wedging in corners and hiding behind doors, curled up over books and concealing the fragility of my bones.

Daisies are my favorite because they grow wild, because they look so frail but last and last. Daisies are friendly and quiet and pleased that you've noticed them. They are sweet.

The nights, on the other hand, were for me. They were for slipping out once the yelling started and walking the quiet sidewalks, noticing the exact sensation of my pulse. They were for being barefoot in prickly crabgrass, for hunting small frogs, for pressing on my bruises.

Even still I bruise so easily, usually not even sure where the blue flowers under my skin have come from. I trip and bump and move ungracefully and, as a result, find myself covered in tender spots. I have stopped feeling self conscious about them.

My days were spent at the park, swinging in the swings and kicking the clouds. They were spent cheering the boys on the basketball court, for watching my best friend mince and prance and hunch her shoulders suggestively. All of my photographs were of the days.

It was in the nights that I knew myself, knew beyond the frizzy hair and awkward ways.

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