She slid down the Kinsey scale and I slid deeper into myself. It was inevitable.
She wanted a big man to take care of her. I’m 5’4”, dickless and an artist. It didn’t bother me much. Honestly, I mostly missed the friendship.
Either way, I was getting more withdrawn, something Emmy never liked. I was less interested in people than I was interested in the image…. the “character” of who ever it was who I let love me. Because, I haven’t cared about anyone else properly since high school. And I don’t think I ever will again.
Relationships are one way street now and I’m standing at the end. Like bait.
This ability to create characters that are so real does not come without a price. I see everyone this way. I don’t get a choice anymore.
The reason I call myself ‘the hollowest girl’ is because when it comes to people I am, inelegantly, hollow; Empty (in a non over-dramatic or negative way) and I fill myself up with bits of people I meet until I get full.
Then, I file the bits away for later and use them to haphazardly paste together characters to write about. Characters who are beautiful and worth falling in love with because, ultimately, I’ve fallen in love with them before.
Its like some sort of strange curse.
I wish I could share with you all some of the wonderful characters I’ve made. They’re all two drops fact and one drop fiction. Nearly always male. And achingly lovely, every one.
But its never fun.
Because like I said, its a one way street. There is no grand journey at the end; just…. the end. and once they get there, everyone involved gets bored. And eventually, someone will put up a sign that says “No Outlet, One Way Only”, and the street will stop getting visitors.
Even pavement gets lonely.
Why do you think it lets flowers poke through?
Or at least as close as you can get to that while you’re in high school.
We dated off and on for around 4 years. There was a time during the first two where I didn’t go to sleep without speaking to her first. Being with her was as natural as breathing.
We dallied with boys while we were together, for the fun of it. We didn’t need them. We didn’t really love them. At least not as much as we loved each other.
She wore red stilettos and red lipstick. While I wore army coats and bow ties; jeans so skinny, my hips could hardly breathe.
She had the loveliest little breasts. And the darkest eyes.
I had the joy of watching her grow….
It was an uncomplicated sort of love, built on trust and comfort and a peculiar kind of laziness that pervaded everything we did together.
She was home, in a way. When you leave it, you miss it, but when you have it, its not nearly as valuable seeming. I’m not sure why that is, but that is what being with Emmy was like.
It was no grand romantic adventure. Just, sweetness.
I was 5.
I have always been a sensualist. And I like possessing people. Things, I couldn’t give two shits about, but people? They are priceless. Beautiful. Intricate. Fleeting.
Anyway, It was so long ago, I barely remember anything about her.
She had brown hair.
Her mom used to braid it into pigtails for her and I remember thinking that it looked so lovely.
Her skin was like honey and milk.
She wore a lot of gingham.
It was the most beautiful word I’d ever heard.
We went everywhere together, as children are wont to do. And only played with each other, if we could manage it.
I just remember looking at the back of her neck as she dug deep into the ground with small muddy hands and wanting her so badly. I didn’t even know what I was wanting, but there was this ache deep in my chest that felt like the manifestation of the word please, but significantly less polite…..
I’m sorry this one is so short.
This memory is over 15 years old.
If it were a book and it were left out in the sun, I’m sure the words would be bleached off the page completely, by now.