A girl I do not know, with Kiera Knightly’s face, I think. But when I look I cannot see a single piece of it that matches. I cannot be swayed, even with this most obvious of a refute. For an entire two hour class I am thinking of her. I meet her eyes too many times. Now I am determined. As we pack up our bags, she turns to the teacher. “So the project is due the 14th?” The answer is there. She has Kiera Knightly’s voice, and the face of someone I do not know.
Trees whos tops look like wisps, like ribbons, like fingers, like thick cracks along the skyline. Clouds that look like kneeded dough, like cookie batter rolled too thin, with the counter showing through in places
Fingertips rolled into glass by firm, foreign fingers. Smudged prints set down on digital pixel to prevent what? I wonder, if I will not pass this test. If my prints are so indiscernible as a direct reflection of my own smudged self, all mussed up all resisting pressure all holding up lines all making easy things very, very hard? I wonder, if I can be guaranteed similar ends, as fingers foreign, firm by glass into rolled fingertips- again.
What should have filled that ….
Sensible: (definition according to Dictionary.com)-
Cold is all relative to how well goosebumps match with shoes, just as rain is all relative to the shade of lipstick smeared across the tips of front teeth. Who knew God sent all these weathers just to challenge my…. wardrobe?
“Your current situation is not you final destination,” says me to myself as I am trapped in an elevator for days without water, common sense, or a goddamn bobby pin in brown.
Ink that flows through the lines in dry skin, bleeding out from dark lines put there by pen. Messy liquids flooding into the minute tracks of cells just one brush from flaking away.