Coward's Tongue  − August, 2002

She sat so quietly in the back of the room that you'd think she was trying to disappear into the corner. She was a goth kid, complete with an impressive collection of Hot Topic punch cards and varying shades of eye liner that were all really the same shade. Her hair was short back then, cut boyishly, making her look even younger than she really was.

She hid behind inches of makeup, as if she couldn't pile the stuff on thick enough. She didn't want people to know who was hiding under it, she didn't want them to see this sad little girl who smoked too much and listend to Marylin Mansion; who would fall into drugs and alcohol just like you knew she would, though it breaks your heart anyway; who would lose her virginity and not remember it; who would kill herself on a daily basis while you held your breathe and watched.

I saw her the other day. She's much thinner than she used to be, and she looks as if she hasn't slept in weeks, which is doubtlessly the case. Life hasn't been good to her. Actually, life has fucked her up, and all that's left is this bony thing with shimmering brown eyes that make your knees weak, and a smile that cuts your heart in half right down the middle. I want so badly to help, to say something to keep her from falling, but my words are thin and weak, bourne on a coward's tongue.