June Thirty First | Teen Ink

June Thirty First

September 7, 2013
By Viminaria BRONZE, Walnut, California
Viminaria BRONZE, Walnut, California
3 articles 1 photo 0 comments

June thirty first, 12:00 a.m., she will walk to a place no one has heard of, where no one will see the trace of the bandage she tore off her arm a day ago. The scabs will be free to form and nobody will notice that she is not beautiful.

The distance between the ocean and the stars will be as close as the proximity between her, and the soil beneath her back. So that she could look up and see clouds cry, in place of people, there will be no carbon dioxide in the atmosphere to create the acid rain with a pH lower than 7, its taste, somehow, unnaturally neutral, in comparison to the sour sensation stuck to her previously like the gumball melted on the side walk that had refused to leave the soles of her shoes.

One o’clock, ring, two o’clock, ring, three o’clock, ring, three thirty in the morning there are things to be done tomorrow. No more, whish, whish, whish, of a busy ponytail, scuffle, scuffle, scuffle, of papers until scuffles of mind and heart collapse, of the screams of long drawn out siiiiiiilence of those not listening.

She is the conductor, of a windpipe orchestra having played for paupers, kings, and everyone in between. Her hands have flared like the tsunami waves that have washed away dreams build on shores using sand, and wood.

She sees on days that aren’t June thirty first constellations, and the lines that have actually never exited between them. But she wonders if those invisible lines that connect scattered light are actually arms, with hands holding hands to create a heavenly body. She wonder if those twinkles, that she sees in the sky are actually the bemusement of eyes in the night she wants to know if those curved structures of four stars connected to each other are actually smiles, and the two flight indicators of an airplane, nostrils of a nose, she wonders why, wants, to understands why, demands, to know why that out of the millions of hands that touch, smiles that have been erased by dusk, noses to sniff the perfume scent of roses given to and by lovers, eyes that seem to never stop sparking why, there are no shapes, in this world that represent ears that listen.

She has been diagnosed as being aphasic since her birth. She has never been able to speak, is unable to speak, and never will be able to speak. There is no such day as June thirty first, for someone like her, so it’s about damn time people, began to listen, with their hearts open.

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