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qianxunn · 2 years

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a beautiful girl sits alone.

she says she likes being alone. she despises people. she despises you.

but she is so beautiful in her solitude. she stares out into the world with beady black eyes and you wonder what they are seeing and you wonder what she thinks of it.

she doesn’t have to think at all. you like her either way. or maybe you’ll like her better if there is nothing in her little mind. then you can pretend that when you stand in front of her and her black eyes stare into yours all that is inside her head is you.

she likes being alone. have you ever seen her alone? do beautiful girls still exist when you stop looking at them? when you turn away, maybe she will disappear slowly, piece by piece, until there is nothing left. a leaf falls onto the seat she sat on. it is a bright red.

you are a beautiful girl. you hate being alone.

when you turn back, she is still sitting at her seat. she fills you with an indescribable sadness.

i love you.

you can’t say it out loud. she wouldn’t like it if you did.

beautiful girls turn to dust when you look away. but you wonder anyway. what did she do today, before she came here? she stands in her kitchen, dipping a teabag into an old mug, its brim chipped and stained with lipstick. it’s cold but she keeps her window open, she likes the smell of the outside air. her eyes are puffy and her legs are covered in bruises and she’s dressed in a cami and striped underwear with moth eaten holes in them. what is she thinking? beautiful girls who like to be alone don’t think. they just are.

you want to sit next to her. no, more than that. you want to hold her hand. you want to be her, be inside her, like a russian nesting doll. you are the girl who hates being alone. she will fix that.

maybe you’re a bit jealous. she can do what you can’t. sit still look pretty. you cannot sit still. when you sit plant your feet on the ground and look straight ahead suddenly there are too many thoughts. beautiful girls should not think. thinking hurts. your knees jump up and down and you begin to scratch your left arm and now you are bleeding and this is all your fault. i told you you couldn’t do it. but you wouldn’t listen.

it is raining. the bus isn’t here yet. i am wearing white shoes but soon they will not be, not when the rain turns the grass to slippery brown mud. she is still sitting there, dry under the covers of the bus stop awning. we both listen as the rain hits the plastic.

she is a beautiful girl. and she looks at me. her eyes remind me of mine.

i love you.

i’ll say it this time. i promise.

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