RIVERS IN YOUR MOUTH
I once knew a girl - Elizabeth - and she had auburn hair and insipid eyes. She and I would play by the river, but one day she did not show. I waited - for seven weeks - until one day she washed up, with mottled skin and hair that smelt of freshwater.
I was invited to the funeral; the only child there. I did not want to go. I did not want to see Elizabeth dead; I did not want to acknowledge a dead Elizabeth at all. But still I went, and kept my head low, as townspeople came forth to pray for a little girl they had never met. I ignored her open casket, and did not once glance at her falsely tanned face. When they lowered her into the ground, I promptly vomited into the wilting grass.
It has been twelve weeks, and Elizabeth is still in the ground. I visit her everyday, and tuck baby's breath into the grass (although how I wish I could tuck it into her hair).
I once knew a girl, and she will never grow old, or grey. My mother tells me this is life.
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