boxes

She sat there on the floor, surrounded by her pretty, glittering expensive things, all laid out neatly around her. All shiny and new. Each object looked as though it had been placed so meticulously in the position it was in. She wasn’t sure what to think of. She added up the numbers in her head. Two-fifty for the jeans, three hundred for the shoes. The jeans didn’t look good on her. She had lost too much weight; she was far too thin. It wasn’t intentional. She ate when she was hungry. None of her jeans looked good on her anymore; they all sort of just hung there. What she wanted was a hug. A great big bear hug, the kind you feel safe and desperately happy in. Not from her mother or her father (even though she never hugged her father anyway) but from a friend. A friend you can talk to. A friend who cares about the things you’re talking about, not because they’re particularly interesting, but because it’s important to you, so it’s important to them. She would like to feel safe. But there’s a big difference between safe and trapped. There’s a big difference between safe and smothered, safe and scared, safe and terrified shitless. She wants to be part of something bigger than herself; she wants it so severely, but she dared not tell a soul about it. She wasn’t needy, she wasn’t weak, how dare you look at her as though she’s lesser than you.