She was faking it. Thought everyone could see it too. She was convinced the surly starbucks barista knew her secret, but she kept going anyway. Kept wearing it just to wear it out, thought that maybe if enough time trickled by it would absorb into her complexion and she would no longer have to think about it and it could be a part of her demeanor rather than this unnecessary attachment. On the good days she hung it out the window to dry while curling her hair, but on the bad days it clung to the insides of her ribcage for dear life or dear death depending on the tune she sung that day.
Published by Erin Rose Belair
I write because maybe you have felt this way as well. Because none of us truly love or ache alone. View all posts by Erin Rose Belair