Dressed to Confess

How long do you have to repeat something for it to become true to you? People always try to infringe upon each other, always butting into each other business and personal lives, but why does it matter to them? Why can't people just leave each other alone? How long can you fake your way through your life? "You're not even paying attention to me!" Whined the most important person in my life, Bianca.

We had met when I moved into the neighborhood at 12 years old, my mother and I were both running from something, Bianca's mother was heavenly to us; she kept my mother sane through the years. At the mere sound of her voice I can feel my smile bloom, there was rarely a time that she didn't delight me. "Hun, you look amazing in both the blue and purple ones; you look tasty enough to eat." She huffs, sticking out her bottom lip and complaining, "You're still not helping me pick!" Her words lost their volume as my eyes automatically went to her lips; such a soft pink so full of moisture, they always looked so soft. "See and now I've lost you again!" I jerk my eyes to her impatiently waiting brown ones, "You haven't lost me darling, my thoughts seem to want to wander however. I'm sorry." A sadness clouds her eyes for the briefest moments; almost too fast to see if you didn't know what you were looking for. But I knew exactly what to look for, for years now it had been far simpler to imagine Bianca's face than my own. It was something she never tired of seeing; long brown hair swept to the side that reached her hips, the softest big brown eyes over a small nose speckled with freckles and the pink full lips with a slight intent along the bottom lip. "Come now, you look beautiful in both lovely." She twirls once more, analytically scanning the image in the mirror with a mix of hateful scorn and sadness. With a sign I go to her, "You will be the envy of the night, I can barely breathe just looking at you now!" Everything stands still as I wait for the self hatred to be washed from her eyes, as her thoughts move to my words and her eyes look like they have life in them again.

I watch as she twirls around, scrutinizing her matching peach dress and heels. I can barely take my eyes off her; I've always been one to appreciate beauty when I have the chance. Without raising her eyes she says, "You know we came here for both of us to shop, not for you to stare at me trying on dresses. If you don't have something to try on in the next fifteen minutes I'm picking something for you and you know you hate that." Her eyes meet mine and almost violently wanted to kiss the smirk off her lips; she always knew how to tease me without taking it too far. "You know I said I wasn't going to go, I don't have a date; I'd just be following you around like a puppy all night aha." Her heels clack as she comes to stand before me, still just barely reaching my eye level. I never could resist the puppy dog eyes I'm now faced with, "okay, okay. I'll try to find something, though you know its hopeless." She smiles at me triumphantly and goes into the change room to change back into her regular clothes. Bianca comes to my rescue two and a half racks later with three dresses already in hand, "this is my favorite and you need to try it on first!" she says as she hands me a long deep red silk dress. I slip into a change room and hold my breath as I slide the soft material over my head, staring at the deformity in the mirror. As I open the door I search Bianca's face as she spots me, "Oh my god you look amazing. That's the dress. That's it you have to come now you can't back out with something so beautiful!" I feel heat crawl up my neck at her compliment but her words don't soothe me. I watch as her eyes continue to rake down my form; I whisper, "you know I'm not going.." I stand before her, the entirety of my shame exposed and she just stares. "Why?" she asks. I barely heard her over the sound of my heart, like a bird begging for flight.
"Because I love you."

The Makings Of

Memories and time have always been something I've struggled with in ways, like a book read long ago; the words are lost but perhaps you can recall the plot, maybe even some of your favorite parts. What if your life was like that? Like a once well loved novel tossed to the side once stripped of its vast of knowledge. A story waiting to be told in the subconscious of those witness to it, stories that are either refused and ignored or merely misplaced in the mind. Where does one ever start with an earliest memory? How concrete of a thought, image or action constitutes as a memory? In my minds eye when I think of my childhood I get an emptiness that when explored heeds nothing but disappointment. One of the more tangible early memories I have is of my family's house in Windsor, a cute little white country house. Our road seemed to stretch on forever (I would often think this on the multiple bus rides to and from school), acres between our nearest neighbors and home to the inspiration for my career choice. Though our houses were separated by miles you could still smell them; strong, towering horses muscled and bred to work. One day my neighbor came by and allowed me to go with her for a ride, when she rode up on horseback all I could do was stare, this beautiful beast was almost if not taller than my roof! I remember all the different animals we used to have, their species and who in the family they belonged to but other things are just a blur and I don't understand how I've forgotten what was once important to me. I remember the first birthday that I had had in that house; only one boy showed up (he spent the day in tears because of it) and I had awoken to find my gerbil mysteriously dead in its cage. I wasn't even ten yet but I still knew what type of person I was, a gerbil killer!

Whenever I try too hard to think of my childhood it comes and goes, like being able to see filaments in water when the light is shining, how the tiny specks seem to dance in the ray of light only to disappear upon focus. But is does your past really have that strong of a correlation to what and whom you are now? As an adult I can definitely admit that the past does have certain influences, but where does it end? When does the child die and the adult take its place? Am I the adventurous little tomboy or the teenager filled to the brim with stress, anxiety and emptiness if you could believe it. Am I the grade nine student that begged to stay home day after day so I wouldn't have to be in this wretched place? Or am I the grade twelve that attends every day with a silent scream on their lips? How do you actually measure how old someone is? Is it the amount of years they've been on the earth, the amount of wrinkles around their eyes, the amount of lovers they've had or how well they can score on a test?  You wish to know of my past and how that has shaped the person you see in front of you today; so how can I answer a question about someone I don't know? Such questions have always seemed out of place to me; completely directed at the wrong person. How am I supposed to know the things that effected me and didn't as a child? Isn't there someone, anyone else that was there and has more faith in their memories than someone who doesn't believe in any? But the worst part is....who really gives a damn about what made you like you are now? I supposed someone very interested in the individual; but what was it that sparked the interest in the first place? People are only ever interested in the gift they over look; the present.

Educational Wits

Thats it, thats all
I hope you kids have had a ball
How ungrateful
and how hateful

When you scheme
you make me want to scream
you act like little hogs
that need a good flog

What a disrespectful choice
as awful as your high pitched voice
I honestly love to teach
but you suck the fun out of it like a leech
I'm not here to preach
but your education is a reach

No control or consideration
Should I even ask the question?
What do you see when you look at me?
Am I someone you want to be?

Another voice lost in the wind
words barely skimmed
Am I your babysitter
or a lottery winner?

I honestly love to teach
I'm not here to preach
your education is in your hand
I'm just part of the damned