That are rough,
As they wrap around me
I can feel their cold and
They can hear mine.
I hold a globe
Of light as it dances around my
I wonder if it has ever
Touched upon yours.
There she was. Standing, in a paper white t-shirt and grey sweatpants. Her wavy brown hair, that I loved to play with but she despised, was held together precariously by a single hair tie. The light flickered to an irregular beat, highlighting the strands of copper that streaked and danced through her head. Her back was to me, only emphasizing the gap, both physically and emotionally, between us. I could not see her face, but what I could see broke my already bruised and torn heart.
Her back. I could count every rib, every crevice, creating a story only understood by those who knew her. And only to those who knew her well. Like with everything else in her life, this girl had planned, processed, and produced this disease so that even a close inspection could not tell what was going on. Only through the little things did I even suspect that there was a crack on the perfectly created mask of Lacey Charleston.
Elizabeth Porter sat quietly in her statehouse, staring at the ceiling. It was 1912, and she was aboard the RMS Titanic, a newly built ship that was sailing from Southampton, England, to New York in America. Elizabeth was thinking, in her usual reserved way, about the expenses and wonder of the amazing, beautiful ship that was now sailing swiftly through the Atlantic Ocean. What a lot of money it must have cost to build this spectacularly radiant sailing vessel, she thought. Then the charming, sixteen-year-old girl's thoughts suddenly changed. She remembered earlier that day, when she was in her stateroom, and a steward appeared in her doorway.