Apa So rtm ng. ent.

She lays on the floor of her apartment blasting playlist after playlist.
She feels the bristles of the carpet rough whiskers against her arms, her thighs, her cheeks, she types.
Still trying to avoid the sounds of sirens, screaming children, and fighting couples.
The textbook's cover unattended on a rocker, only a ghost there now.
She's hurt.
Understanding the difference between wanting to be ready, and what it means for others.
Him.
She holds back the tears knowing that they are out of stress and frustration.
Can a man can tell her that she will be a different person five years from now, that, it is a reason for wanting to stay in a steady limbo.
Wanting to see the new person, and because he wishes for youth to be spent before they marry.
Her hands tremble.
She looks up to the screen, in her mind she wasn't looking for something straight away,
Her heart heavy in knowing that to him that taking things slow means not even a thought for at least another three years.
Not even an engagement....
She knows the isle is asking a lot for the next couple years,
Is engagement too much to ask for two or three years?
From a man she lives with, a man she intends to spend the rest of her life with...
To him it's too much.
To her its a spit in the face.
She feels as if she is not good enough.
Her daddies words playing against the screen of her mind a projection of all her fears and worries.
"You'll never amount to anything you worthless cunt, who would love you?"
She will keep trying, and keep enjoying what they do have...
but...
the buts keep coming through, and the ifs, they descend on her mind trying to infiltrate ever crevice, hope, and certainty.
She wanted to know.
She asked,
They are on the same page, he's just reading far slower than her.
Is she rushing it?
Three years, maybe four, is that too soon?
Broken pieces of a conversation.
Broken pieces of a woman lays on the floor of a screaming, scratching, crying, apartment...
She would give him everything, and do anything for him...
And he?
He gives, he gives the small things,
and she takes them with greed, a glutton for small tokens.
She asks herself now the final question...
Will he ever see her the way she sees him?
Will he ever want to be something more than an adolescent's concept of love?
More than playing house?
Hope twinkles, and glistens, the broken pieces of childhood seek out the future.
Cling as the light, sun-catchers dangling by a string.