With so much time on my hands these days, I reflect a lot. A year ago, I met a young girl who was on the verge of tears every time I saw her. She suffered from intense anxiety, but made herself come to the summer camp where I worked every day for two weeks because she loved writing so much. She was, and continues to be, an inspiration.
lowercased for little b
she only wrote fanfiction, a trembling teacup piglet.
her voice was a quarter on the train tracks; when asked about herself, she slammed the lid on anyone brave enough to peek inside her Pandora’s box
and would look down horn- rimmed frames, sea glass eyes bottling iridescent bulbs for another inky night of furious scribbling, trying to write herself into a different world, breaking free of Anxiety, her midday lies of humanity.
she’d feel brave, just for a second.
when she told me about repentant evil, her hands didn’t shake, she didn’t pick at bloody flesh craters, she didn’t look away.
she’d meet my eyes and mean every word.
bam