Sunburn

by Chloe Michelle Howarth

It isn’t that I want him, it’s that he wants somebody else. Since when am I not enough for him? If I’m not enough for Martin, I may never be enough for anyone.

I must take his beating heart, cut myself out of it, and bury it right here in the garden.

Introspection is like cyanide. Life is fine this way, ignorance is easy, I do what is easy.

It’s stupid, because I was never going to be his girlfriend, but I do

miss being a priority. Sometimes I wonder whether I’ve missed out on him.

Sometimes, when I indulge in my insecurities, it feels like Rita has surpassed me in importance. All the time Martin and I have spent together is forgotten, because Rita has come along with her warm mouth and easy body. I’m jealous, but I’m not jealous. It’s complicated, I think.

Lucy wants to feel desired. She wants the attentipn but not really. She wants to feel important but that's as deep as her feelings go for M

How can I defend myself to Mother when I don’t understand what I am defending? How is it that when you grow up and get stuck in love, that love is forgotten about? My love now seems to be an aggressive, political thing. It is the ceaseless search for an identity and then committing to that identity.

If I could, I would be fearless. I would be friends with my failures and nurse them until they became victories. Perhaps when I am older, I will live that way and be an honest, proud version of myself – but right now I need to eat, I need to finish school. I am seventeen, I need a mother.

Honesty is expensive, morals are circumstantial;

Autumn is looming, the pressure is mounting, and I draw closer to breaking every day. And so I ignore the Autumn and the questions and reality. And for a short while, my life is an endless Summer night.

To be with her is a sin, to be without her is a tragedy.

It’s a strain to find meaning where there is none. It’s such a teenaged thing to do, why can I not stop doing it? Not everything is a symbol. Sometimes the world is plain and obvious. Sometimes the things I feel and the things I want don’t matter.

The domesticity that once seemed like a prison is now a bliss to aspire to.

Walking through the morning, down Susannah’s road, I feel myself become who I was. I am on my own path. At last, I am nearing the place where I belong. All the time I spent trying to find myself, I was being somebody that I am not. I was born perfect, and every step I took brought me further from that. Now every day I am closer to being that girl again. I want to be that girl here. I want the full version of myself to exist under the pale skies of Crossmore.