dylan brunswick ]] district four ]] cb 3/3

dylan brunswick

I'm not like the other girls. It's not a humble brag, nothing more than a simple truth worn upon scarred palms. White shirts, stained with bright colors because my father was too incompetent to realize that colorful clothing would ruin the beautiful monotony of white shirts left clean. Blank stares like blank slates. Numb veins reaching into a throbbing core and I was begging for it. For pain. 

I felt nothing. I never did. 

I'm not like other girls, because there's blood on my hands. Butterfly wings pinned to cardboard and I watched ants burn beneath a magnifying glass. Sinking beneath the ocean waves, silent and unabashed in her resolve. There was strength in the way that she didn't fight the tide that wrapped its fingers around her throat. Suicide, they called it. Double homicide is a more accurate title. I died that day too. 

I'm not like other girls. There's a heart pulsating beneath my skin but I have hidden it away. So cleverly beneath lies that fall off of monotonous tongues and there is no way that anyone can see where it lay. For there's a sneaking suspicion - somewhere in the pit of my stomach - that I'd rather find where they hide theirs.