Girl Half Empty

//What an odd thing a diary is: the things you omit are more important than those you put in//
- Simone de Beauvoir
/June winner of the diary competition/

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31. //Cause the silence never stayed It's a breach I'll never cover//

21st September

September’s kind of disintegrating and it makes me think of a piece of tin foil that’s been reused too many times. It’s got liver spots on its hands and if it were a sandwich there’d be white mould biting in the corners. The rain makes the road chewed and soggy and I stand on the corner with water collecting in my shoes. Waiting for the bus and I’m waiting for life to repair itself around me and I’ll keep waiting and pretty soon it will be February and pretty soon it will be exams again and pretty soon I’ll be all grown up and I’ll still keep leaving messages on the answer-phone my thirteen-year-old-self had. Wondering where the girl who used to pick up’s gone.

 It’s funny how much like a spot-the-difference page in a kids’ magazine I am: This time yesterday I was close to tears because I was in a church and, for the first time in my life, it seemed that the worshipers genuinely worshiped and, for the first time in my life, singing to a God I sometimes believe in, I got goose-bumps. Finally, finally, finally I felt SOMETHING. And the swollen hope beneath my chest was making aspirational pledges to be a better person.

Today I am close to tears again because I’m as worn-thin as September and my granddad can’t stop puking up his cancer and his wife’s shrinking madly into her dementia and my dad’s lost inside the black dog he used to take for walks. And because it’s a Monday and I left my history homework and book and textbook and reading pack at home and because I’ve got homework on my shoulders like old guy’s get dandruff and I’ve got too much inside my head. And on the school field it’s year seven boys football club and they’re all so grey and soiled and weather-flattened that they seem to have stepped out of cold-war London. I’ve never been there but a good film taught me that the colours there are washed until they’re runny.

The bus stop’s got a friendly face and a friendly word stood beneath it and I feel better for a bit. We pass a wall of bouquets perched on a verge and I go silent inside. The shrines we leave for dead people always make me feel like eggshell.  

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