august ’15 and august ’16 have a conversation.

15: hello. the poet is so happy. is she still that sunflower of a girl?
16: no. she is tired. she heard that the stars were slowly dying and it hurt her. said that would be painful. said they don’t deserve that. 

15: she talked about change a lot. has she found it?
16: she has, but not in the way she wants. it was too quick and painful. her head is spinning.

15: the leaves are falling. the sky is just brush stroke over brushstroke. this month is all the right colours.
16: the leaves have fallen in July already. the trees are bare. the sky is too. the artist up in heaven must’ve quit.

15: does she still write about him? she promised she wouldn’t.
16: she doesn’t write about him anymore. knows if he asked her to be his again she’d say no. this is progress, yes, but yesterday she almost kissed his best friend in a run down old mall, just to see if she could still hurt him.

15: what about her guinea pigs? are the well-rested?
16: of course they are. their fur is still beautiful and shining. they chirp every time they see her and it warms her. 

15: buried her past and her heart with it. 
16: it’s awful. she remembered her birthday but still couldn’t bring herself to wish her. old wounds still hurt if you press them hard enough. 

15: her mother doesn’t know the things that haunt her. 
16: her mother has seen her hurt. she can’t stop praying for her.

15: she loves her red lipstick. i swear the girl would forget her own name but not that shade of burning bricks.
16: she’s softer now. all pastels. bubblegum pink on her lips all the damn time.

15: everything she feels in her chest, is seen in her eyes. 
16: her eyes don’t glow anymore. and it’s breaking my heart.

[part 8/12 of the 2016 series ]


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