i used to spin beautiful words into spiderwebs of sentences, writing letters to a boy. a boy with a freckled collarbone, emerald eyes and rose petal lips.
a boy who had my heart.
my stories would bleed through my fingertips and onto the page. and all the tiny little pieces of me hurt; the space between my ribs, the vertebrae in my neck, the hollows of my eyes. they hurt from the knowledge that the boy had me, but i did not have the boy.
i was in love with this boy because he had stardusted fingertips and raindrop words. but in the morning light, stardust rubs off like cheap glitter, and raindrops dry up to leave parched ears.
the boy broke my heart over and over again, and i let him, because he was so beautiful and i was so lonely.
but one time, he took it too far. he didn't break my heart; he shattered it, crushed it into powder, left me with crumbling memories and running mascara.
the part of me that was in love with him died. he killed it.
for a few months, it felt like there was a steak knife stuck in between my ribs. my bones ached and my blood congealed. i coated my face in sticker smiles and makeup, coated everyone else in cotton assurances that no, i did not care and yes, of course i was over it.
in the dark of my own bedroom, i would nest inside blankets and pillows and nurse my shattered heart, massage the stab wound, and tumble down the dangerous path of memory lane, all the while wondering why i was not enough to make him stay.
i could not write any more letters, could not bleed through my fingertips. i had lost enough blood already.
time passed. i read classics, the words falling out of my mouth, fat and rich. i listened to music, with melodies like caramel and lyrics like honey. i talked, the word coming out in splinters and stripes.
i got better.
i will always love that boy, because love is not like a faucet, something that can be turned on and off at will. he taught me lessons that are hard to learn at sixteen. and in his own broken way, i know he loves me too.
he is both the worst and the best friend i've ever had. so it goes.
now, there is a new boy. he is chocolate eyes, soft and sweet, the gooey kind that stains your lips and tongue and makes you feel warm. his hands are overgrown starfish, splayed across my stomach or resting on my ribs, the weight of his fingers like a token, a gift, anchoring me to the here and the now.
he is stupid jokes and whispered secrets and intertwined fingers. he is tickle fights and honesty and ease.
he is sunshine, not stardust, but what i've found is that things that look better in the light are better than the things that feel special in the night.
he is sunshine, and i'm starting to feel the rays.
~the ginger girl.