Actual Voice's Submission

I decided that the other paragraph was a little intense. Also Elisabeth said it was too scandalous which I thought was interesting. But whatever, this is good. I wrote this last year for Cupryk's class and I got a B but then I submitted it to Mind's Eye, the school anthology thing and got first place in the prose section and $25. That was cool.

I see her finally get out of bed after walking over to hit the snooze button. She exercises, reads and then leaves. When she comes back, she is wet. She leans over the dresser and looks right at me. I look back. I see her but she doesn't see her, or at least she tries not to. She tries NOT to see her as she sees her - she tries to see her the way other people see her. The way HE sees her. The way THEY all see her. Every possible flaw scrutinized.  Though she tries, she knows she can’t please everyone so she sighs and does her best to just be happy with herself. She bustles around, gets dressed- again peering at me trying to see- but yet not see- and then leaves. Without her they only sound comes from the fan. Whenever she is around, her chatter follows. She can’t leave anything alone in her brain; she has to speak out about everything around her and analyzes the heck out of her life. She talks to God. She talks to people I have never seen in places I have never been. Mostly she talks to herself. She get mad at herself and she complains to herself. Mostly she laughs at herself -and at these imaginary people and sometimes even when talking to God. She likes laughing. She also sings. She sings wherever she breaths. She sings herself to sleep and wakes up to a song. She sings soft and vulnerable and then strong and brazen. Her song echoes through the house.  I think she sings because she fears the silence. Also because she loves beautiful things. Her room is full of them-colorful flowers, unusual shapes, pretty book covers, striking artwork, unique material and picture, lots and lots of pictures. I constantly stare at them and they stare at me. Covering her wall is her visual reminder of the people that love her. Friends and family decorate the expanse in front of me. She fears not being loved so she surrounds herself with pictures to remind her. Her bed dominates the room. Large and soft, it helps her feel safe. She doesn't see these things. She doesn't take the time. She has endless lists she scribbles on my face-clouding my vision and hers- of all the things she must do.

Listening to: