She beams at me with that look in her eyes. The ball cuts through the air, her gaze shifts to the sky. I was never fond of Summer, but one look at that sweet face, Tells me all I need to know about this realm in it’s true state. A foot in the future, my eyes on the past. My head in the clouds, my nose with the grass. She bounds up to me, and…
In my all girls catholic school, we were neat, we were quiet, we were pretty. We moved soundlessly through halls, fingers pressed to lips. We spoke when spoken to, and sang of a Friday- the elderly prayed for our purity, I prayed for a decent Irish test. We played violins (as tightly strung as we would become) But it never sounded right. Now, I am barely a woman, I am struggling to find my voice.…
If god is real, He is not my biggest fan. The feeling is mutual. -Jenny Thompson