Today it was warm. Not excruciatingly hot, but warm. Twenty degrees Celsius. A cool breeze blowing in from the coast ten minutes away. Work was bland and repetitive so I left at lunch. Said I was sick. Maybe not with a cold, maybe with sentence fragments and the urge to enjoy a warm day in April. How many of those do we get, anyways?
I was wandering downtown because there was nothing else to do. Started thinking. My birthday was staring me down, I could feel May creeping up behind me, glaring at me with it's hot coal eyes and it's temptation red lips. She wanted me to burn in my own maturity, I could tell.
Eighteen, sweet eighteen, like an icicle to the heart, cold and unwanted. Sure, I could buy porn and vote and get a tattoo and see R rated movies. Sure, sure, sure. You know what eighteen really means? Adulthood. I could get married if a boy tried to pin a diamond on my finger. If I cared about formalities and signing a paper to guarantee true love.
I could flee like every other person in this dead-end, going nowhere town. I could buy a one way plane ticket to anywhere in the world if I'd stop spending money on eyeliner and pizza and started saving. Saving for what? A future? University, a good job, a diamond ring, a boy and a girl, turning thirty, wrinkles, age, old.
I don't want to grow up. Take me to Neverland, Peter, and I'll let you pin diamonds to my paper white skin. I'll become your human chandelier and you can marvel at my beauty, but we won't have feelings. I don't need feelings.
True love. Those words make my stomach acid churn until I have to run and leap and gasp to the bathroom, retching until I am nothing more than that girl in school who they made fun of for having a bigger nose, smaller breasts. They aren't laughing now, are they? Not when I'm the wretched girl, stripping them of everything they used to own, back when we were nothing more than American Eagle models.
But we never had the patience.
I don't want to imagine that he's in love with me, true love. Don't want to believe he's my soul mate and my forever and everything I used to read in fairy tales and gobble up because I was a kid. A kid, for Christ's sake.
It's nearly May and I'm going to be eighteen, sweet eighteen. Take me now while I'm still innocent and naive, never expecting true love and adulthood. Take me to Neverland and we can never grow up. Never, never, never.
I don't care about politics and voting and choosing betwen Stephen Harper and Stefan Dion. I don't care about passion and sex and adding colour to my blank canvas body. I don't care about any of it. All I care about is May's hot breath, like sickly sweet Marijuana and her green, green, green eyes burning into my sides and my front and my back.
I'll have to move out soon, because it's what's expected of me. Expected, it sounds like I'm pregnant, expecting something - expecting a life I cannot maintain. Fake smiles and flushed cheeks, textbooks and running shoes and things that are normal. I don't feel normal, not now, not when April is this warm.
And God have mercy on the boy who tries to pin a diamond on my finger, for I'll run away to Neverland, never, never, never.