Not Who I Will Be
I am the strange one.
The one people avoid.
But trust me, that's how I like it; so please don't disturb me. I don't need company. I'm absolutely fine on my own. Swinging on my tire swing; red Converse swinging under me, brown curls flying behind me, the valley spread out beneath me.
I am no one, who belongs to everyone. Someone to pass and say hello. Someone to be seen and not heard. Someone who sits in the corner and pays attention.
I have nothing, but want every star in the sky. I want to see everything; but can't see more than my valley. The stars that scatter and run across the sky; while I am confined to the ground. Trapped under everyone's watchful gaze; the loopy runner. The only one out there, content with running the valleys in those faded Converse, never wanting to stop.
I can trip and fall around the hills. The rolling pastures of green swaying beneath my eyes.
When I am forced to the ground again, into my ranch home in the hills; I am content wandering the halls and thinking about my hills again.
My mother worries, my father laughs, the maids pay no mind to me; I am anonymous, I doubt many people know more than my name.
In my room, on my dresser, is a bowl of water. In it, three rose petals float. They look startling, and like my shoes, never stop moving. Four streaks of red, stripping through the world.
Next to the bowl of water, is a solitary rose. I've picked them from the garden; the petals have the reddest red imaginable; I picked them because of this. They look strange in my white home; white walls, white beds, white cushions, no wonder my obsession with red runs wild.
Like me, they are the strange ones. Gone, flown, given; we are the ones people avoid.