I wrote this for my fiction writing class, it’s supposed to be short poetry prose.
She wanted to believe that everything would be ok. But she also saw no reason to stop; crying felt so good. She wished she could be strong- be stable, unyielding. But what does that even mean? Why is society so confused about truth? Why is it everything that’s so mortally unique is viewed as weak? Like we’re all supposed to be g-ds; stern and unaffected. Whatever. This hurt. And she couldn’t go to lunch with her friends because she couldn’t show her raw and reddened wet cheeks. So instead she walked, walked in the blistering cold, hands drying and freezing further in each moment and tears dripping tenaciously. Until she found a gentle concrete bench under a gentle wooden tree- right out of the secret garden- right out of childhood- and she remembered life is just a series of symbols ringing true in all these individually perceived clichés.