entry five

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ENTRY FIVE:

HOW MANY SECRETS CAN A GIRL KEEP?

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I don't think you understand me, Ford. I imagine you, beetle-browed and scorning, hunched over my journal. I imagine you trying to find a moment of significance, of a sign (We humans always look for signs, don't we? We can't stand the unknown, can't stand letting things dangle in mid-air, can't stand sentences — lives — cut abruptly.) that tells you why.

Why I left you this, why you, easily overlooked Ford, my last breath.

You'll find out eventually, don't worry. I plan on emptying all the contents of my life (with the exception of the banal, for who cares for the mundane) onto you.

In the meantime, I will tell you of a few of the secrets I harbor. It's funny, almost comical, the way people behave when they think you're not watching. It's funny how similar people are, how tragically uniform they are when they worship originality and innovation.

It's funny, my mother, a child told on her twelfth birthday to be a woman. She cries when no one's watching, alone in silence, that's her secret. She's a sponge, my mother, and all she does — all she's done — is soak. She soaks her brother's decaying marriage because it reminds her of her own; she soaks my grief because she's been told not to grief herself.

My mother soaks until night falls when she can empty her load, but she forgets, my mother, to hang onto the pieces of herself and grip them tight so that nothing — and NO ONE — can take them away from her.

The first time I stumbled upon my mother draped over the kitchen sink, I cried. Every time after that, I've watched silently. It's human nature; we like destruction. We crane our necks to watch crumpled people stagger out of crumpled cars. We watch and encourage people to tear and claw and mangle and sever; that's what we do. And that is what I do.

It's ugly and it's sick, but it's what I do. I don't know how to comfort her, how to wrap my arms around her shuddering shoulders and tell her — what would I tell her, Ford? That I know? That I know she is weaker than she appears (which is a feat in itself)? Do I lie to her red-rimmed eyes and glossy lips and tell her that all will be alright?

You tell me.

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a/n: not edited (like everything else I write). I don't really have anything to say, I just hope you are all having a really good day/night. Also, special thanks to @Burnt-Crayons for her nearly spot on analysis of Ford and making me want to finish this story

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