Oh it's you
Itchy, itchy. Maybe you can tell I've been avoiding writing. Yes I've been posting. All sorts of nonsense. But now it's a nice time to write. People's voices fading into the early evening, out the door, down the side streets onto the bus and home. Not me. I stay, crooked and surrounded in paper. Bare feet, my heels lying beside me. Wheeling on my office throne. Making paper boats to throw down the St. Laurence. Of varying sizes and quality. This morning, we were waiting on the street corner for the dealer when I saw the girl I haven't seen in a long time. She has a flower name, and her eyes all over my boyfriend. Skin to skin, whenever she can get that close. Round, pretty face. Porcelain skin, but her laugh is too big and too early. She's one of those, she nods before she knows the question. I'm sure they all talk at the dinner parties. "Tui. Drugs. Poor Tui. What a shame. What a waste. Blah blah blah. Junky." I never liked being looked up to. I don't like being pitied. I've been careful with my arms and only one is bad now. A glob of pale foundation and a slightly bent arm and I'm just another girl. Except if my purse spilled open, I'd be standing in a big pile of used needles and spoons and wrappers and waters. And my face would go bright red. And I'd wish I could shrink into the evidence and hide. Because I still care.