she had tired eyes. if you can imagine that, at least. they were big and round and holy. like saucers with dimensions, little flickers of hazels and greens, but mostly, they were blackbrown. when she would cry her lids would open like bureau drawers and her lip would tremble and her nose would run, but she never made a sound. even sobbing she was modest and she smoked herself calm and breathed raspy, let out oxygen and hiccups and you couldn't touch her. just secretly watch her with your head down, wanting to hold her.

her hands were small teacups and she waved them effectively when she spoke which was infrequent. every time she moved her mouth she'd bite her lips in between sentences, chew on the insides of her cheeks. if you knew her, you could tell that she was nervous and her eye contact was shakey and her knees would wobble up and down, her smile was small and timid, her laugh a monotone giggle that seemed uncharacteristic of her overwhelming girlishness.

when she was stoned her voice would almost creak and her long, long hair would fall into her face and all you could see between the vastness of her heavy waves was the small curve of her nose whose nostrils flared autonomously when she was excited, and sometimes, for no reason at all. she'd curse like a sailor when she was passionate, and you'd always be surprised, because even though she seemed shy, she wasn't, and her quiet mannerisms would fail her and she'd enunciate each letters and gesticulate emphatically, more so if she was angry and you'd believe her. even if she was lying. which she often was. but you still loved her, even when she was mean, and sometimes she could be heartless. cruel even. but mostly she stroked you like a paintbrush and combed away stray locks behind your ears if you were sad and she meant every apology she ever spoke and had the guilty conscious of a thousand unwed mothers.

when she made love she'd keep her mouth in one straight line unless she was kissing, and when she kissed she rarely opened her lips but when she did she'd graze her tongue across the outline of your mouth. but mostly she would softly peck away at your corners, your cheeks, you're forehead, your chest, your shoulders. and when she was naked it was always dark and even when she showered she wouldn't look down because she hated the swing of her breasts and definition of her knee caps curving towards her thighs. when someone called her beautiful she'd smile downwards and wave her fingers to negate the words and close her eyes so she wouldn't have to see you when she thanked you.

when she was alone she hid her secrets in desk drawers and played with words in random books. she'd always keep lollipops and found satisfaction in the 'POP' resulting from pulling the candy out of closed lips. she would dance in the shirts of passed lovers and when she was raging with sadness she'd lock herself in the bathroom and collapse against the tiles throwing objects at the door and slapping red prints in her face until she was too tired to scream or move and she would sink into her bed and hug pillows to her chest.

and when she was lonely she'd record her voice and play it back and criticize the way she spoke outloud, and shake her head until the image of herself was gone. and she was often lonely.

but those eyes. they held worlds of understanding, blinking recognition and brimming with the kind of pain that can only be felt with decades of misdirection and repression. and she held it in, held it in. held everything in those eyes that had seen too much.

09/18/2006

Posted on 09/19/2006
Copyright © 2024 Lauren Singer