Confessions of a 5'1"

Disappointment. Dis-appoint-ment. This, a point meant, was what she received.

She tries to let it pass her by, maybe if she doesn't acknowledge it it would simply leave her alone. But the problem is, it took a liking to her and it stops to play with her hair, to blow a breath of sadness in her face. It finds her inability to retaliate something humorous and pleasing, an excuse to linger.

It sleeps all night and all morning too. At those times, she's oblivious and believes herself free. She goes out with friends and spends her time radiantly, she sure knows how to smile. But at evening it lurks, and spotting its prey looms overhead. That is when she learns of the rejection, the let downs the "can't"s. She sees the chances too far from her grasp, she hears the "no" and feels the wind from the closing doors.

She wants to reach higher, to stand on her tippy toes, to refuse to take it as an answer-to knock again. But as she raises a hand, it falls back down. Her energy is consumed from day to day and inside, she is defeated.

She can still smile, you really ought to see it, and her laugh is something to listen to. Even if they're forced and muddled with tears, they'll keep coming because that's all she can do. Things disappointment can't steal off her lips or from her voice. Her only act of rebellion as she obediently drops her aspirations and wishes.

The only thing she manages to acquire is a pat on the head for turning away from everything she ever held her breath for.

Its been months now since we've started talking. We got along easily since the beginning, I'm not sure how it happened. I don't even remember meeting you at all. It's strange, but I'm not alarmed.

I usually worry about one thing or another constantly, even in my sleep. But since you've been here I finally feel peace and I realize everything is okay. I wonder where you came from. You're living on your own and though you don't say it, I know you're lonely.

You've told me that you're not used to being dependent, that you're usually the one who worries about others. Sometimes, you've got to let me do the worrying for you. It's what friends do, right? We'll take it on hand in hand.

And you're a Guardian Angel, I'm sure. You're a natural comforter and the one people confine their thoughts to. Whenever I'm upset, you're somehow present and ready to pick me up again. But are you really my angel?

Whenever I went to late night parties, somehow I would end up sitting somewhere along a wall or by myself on the couch with an unopened can of sprite in my hand. There would be the smell of weed in the air and the sound of heavy liquor going down down down. I could hear the sex in their words when they spoke, I could feel the intentions behind their eyes, the drugs in their bags. I'd catch sight of you dancing without a thought of the world, the music in your veins, and smile.

You enjoyed taking my hand and dragging me to these places. I would follow without a word or complaint, so humor me. You always did. These nights never really ended well, but how can we really expect them to? I'd turn away from your slim figure and watch the predators prowl. If I blinked, they would be gone. Sometimes you'd take me into a bedroom and we would sit on the floor together, our backs against the bed. Whenever we left the room, your "friends" would give you a high five.

Early morning when it was still dark, we'd be walking, your arm heavy around my shoulders. Ever since I met you, you've been good at holding your alcohol. I think you held mine too, just because you were that great of a friend. Our steps would slow as we got to the end of the street and routinely we would turn and face each other.

"Never... have I felt so alive," You'd tell me breathlessly in my ear as you pull me into a tight hug.

I'd think of the 'you' I once knew.

"You don't even know alive anymore," I'd say and give you a kiss on the cheek goodnight.