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documentations of a fumbling girl

documentations of a fumbling girl
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"where are your manners, young lady?" everyone asks. and she folds her hands in her lap, sits quiet; says nothing. there will be no one else. she is excited in a semiproclaimed way, but her eyes feel dim. "the lights aren't all out and neither are you," she sighed carelessly. her hands are a fumbling mess, working into her own hair; tangles. the introvertion of her fingers is sickening. sickening the way she stares at those in coffee shops, as they inhale their cancer. always this obsession with the way people look through windows. "no, i'm not out. but i'm starting to flicker," he replies in turn. "i'm probably just getting on your nerves now." his hands had nowhere to be placed except with hers. she was always his hotel. "why do you always think you're getting on my nerves?" she knew he was ending this. she felt it in her stomach. (and especially in her heart) things were getting desperate. "i know i'm always getting upset, but it's not your fault. okay? it's not your fault. i'm sorry." "i don't think this is going to work if you're always sorry." his eyes were easing her through this. he had no intention of hurting her. but he was hurt, too. "why can't you just love me and not the way i look in photographs?" she had nothing to say. the speechless girl inside strikes again. "fine. i can't do this anymore." still nothing to say. always saying goodbye. always leaving. "why don't i deserve love just because i can't love myself?" the numbers you gave her and a b c d e f gesture. solitude unlike, as you crash -- nothing is ever the same way again. you're distorted, they all tell her. i don't get you, they all tell her. act like a lady, they all tell her. "why should i?" she asks in return, her fingernails a bother. she bites her lip as they give her a cold look. nothing else is said.
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