With knees hugging her chest, dust covering her like a second layer of skin,
cobwebs becoming one with her fingertips.
Insecurities, broken dreams, discarded hopes wrapped around her like armor.
She’s never seen the light of day.
Never kissed the rays of the sun or sang along with the morning breeze
or dance with the spring flowers or watched the leaves play at being chameleons every fall.
She’s afraid of the light. In the light there’s people who are going to be her judge, jury and executioner before a sound passes by on her lips. She tells herself daily.
She rather isolate herself in the icy corner where it’s safe than be like all the others and set foot into the light just to be left’d feeling rejected and tormented.
It’s better this way, she tells me.
I’m full of panic and sadness knowing no matter what I tell my true self, she will never move from her little corner.
She'll die there and no one will be the wiser, not even me. No, this directive is aimed at all you casual Cosmo lovers, you Saturday night vodka martini drinkers, you Bloody Mary and vodka tonic tipplers.
You probably developed your taste for vodka way back before you really knew much about drinking, precisely because vodka didn't have much taste. You could mix it with anything Gatorade, say — and manage to get efficiently wasted .
You there, with the coffee mug full of clear liquid, sipping vodka because you think it won't make you reek of alcohol at your 9 a.m. meeting:
I'm actually talking to you.
originally posted by T 2010