fiction.
grace
—
Pointed toes touch the ground before you lift off, spinning around in circles.
Beautiful, you used to be.
Crash, burn, crash, burn— now what are you?
—
Greedy hands grab another cupcake, sprinkles spreading across your lips.
Flash! Because every moment should be remembered— every little thing you do should be documented, every twirl, every sprinkle spread across those lips of yours, every laugh and every memory.
And the rest of the cupcake is sneakily hid behind other food.
—
When you were seven, you wrote a story. About a unicorn princess who got lost in a forest and couldn't find her family. Three awards, you won.
Smiling brightly, you held up all three at once standing atop the schools stage.
Perfect little Grace, what happened?
Fell into the wrong crowd, did you.
Got into the wrong car, did you.
—
Liv and Mini were friends before you, intimidatingly beautiful and scary nice.
You, well, you were just the lost little lamb in the middle. Innocent, innocentinnocentinnocent but they took you to a party and promised to be your best friends until the dawn of time.
They got you drunk, wasted. Couldn't walk straight and ran into a pole, the three of you laughing about it as you ran down the sidewalk like nothing mattered anymore, because nothing did matter.
"Love you!" Liv shouted, and it felt nice. Being wild, didn't it?
—
Fingers flick through the book, a mix of images staring back up at you.
Why does your heart hurt, Grace?
Maybe you want to go back to that time, but sweetie, didn't anybody tell you that you can't.
—
Mini holds back your hair as you vomit, strokes your curls and whispers that it'll be okay. It will be. Choosing to believe her is easier than admitting that you got yourself into trouble tonight.
Crouching down next to you is Liv, softly frowning as she watches you. Holds you upright as your body starts to slouch.
God, what would you do without them? You hope you never have to find out.
—
Maybe you were a work of fiction, little and small and dainty against a shelf. Maybe someone wrote you up on a book, or in a script so you could fit in.
Maybe you wrote yourself.
—
Twirling. Twirling. Twirling.
Burning. Burning. Burning.
Dead. Dead. Dead.