She sits in the front row pew. She sits pristine, nails polished and hair highlighted.
I think its so she doesnt have to look at anyone else. I think its so she doesnt have to see people look at her.
She stares into space, occasionally rolling her eyes and the shame that seeps through her pores project her past as fattened regret - growing heavy with the stress of each patterend day.
And Im tired of feeling pity. And Im tired of justifying.
Im tired of wondering if she is the mold for which destiny has made me the clay.
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I'm afraid that she is the clay that I have been molded into.
I dunno. At least she goes...
~aim.
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