“Tired Girl” by Schuyler Myvette

L.A. Dawn

6 a.m. and the sky resembles a perpetual indigo. Gene’s eyes are wide open, she closes her lids slow. Every morning begins this trend again, where her dry eyes click more times than she could count on anyone who once called her a friend. Repetitive, are the clicks of her lids, dried eyes from always on watch as a kid. She mistook herself for the hoot she’d never find in the wilderness. She’s been quietly observant throughout her development, she managed to always know where she has been or is.
She mistook herself for the hoot in the wilderness, regardless if helicopters were the closest thing to what heaven sent. Alone she rests, uncomfortable again in two years the consistency of her neighbor’s lover’s moan, were counted as her only friend. Insomniac she may be, but her grandmother constantly mistook her silence as a raging flame. In truth, Gene is the cause of the rain that’s flooded her old school, in which the student’s that day many years ago would dance in. Wheels of skateboards and bikes, road through the rush of droplets falling from her sky.
To come from a unclear past, she looks to the place she must love to be, unless she wishes to rebel and list herself as truant. School bells were the melody that got her to this morning, like all others. Whether she finishes homework late in the night, she returns from the numerous jobs she had. She has her options within this choice or lack thereof. She popped her vertebrae unintentionally, her grans sleep pattern as light as a feather falling from the street pigeon shedding in the sky. Did her toes pop so loud, her gran mistook its for her alarm to check if she’s run away from the spiral world her mother readied her for?
Can she remember that through the process of dreaming of today’s outfit, will she remember to speak for herself today? Does she have a choice? In the Smog City of opportunity, will anyone mean what they say? Residing in the middle of Paradise insisted by those who put her in her place, stuck where many wish and come to perpetuate a plastic product of Sincerity.
She mistook herself for the hoot in the trees she has not seen for years. This Winter she’s wishing to be back in the place most inviting, not considered exciting by those who’ve rushed the desert. She closes her eyes, let the click of her dried eyes lull her to sleep. The perpetual indigo was covered in by pink and orange clouds, bringing contrast to the repetition of her daily.
In her REM she dreams of the mystery of the oasis of her ancestors, wondering if when she wakes, there will be storms to wash away the smoke and chemicals, bringing unknown cousins to their undoing. Will she wake up to the helicopters and sirens in the sky and the streets? Or a notification of her place of work being burned down with the rest of what gives beings like her hope?

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