dirty playground

she is red hair and hazel eyes. she is high temper. when she was young i remember she would stomp her foot and yell at the play station when her virtual character fell to its untimely death. she would run across playgrounds in dirty plastic-and-foam flip flops, her red hair flying behind her, in tangles with grass blades threaded throughout. she was the laugh that always made you smile, the big glass of milk with cookies on the side. she was the orange soda mustache. flash forward seven years, and you have a girl trying to put her carefree past behind her. she is growing up too fast and now her eyes are smeared with black mascara and black eyeliner and knee high socks. the freckles that still pepper across her face always take me back to those endless summer days playing hide and seek in the forest and catching fireflies at night with the neighborhood kids. now she’s in the room next to me with her angsty music blasted too loud and her laughter spilling into the upstairs hall as she talks to a boy on her phone. she’s knock off doc martens, and black nail polish and a book in her hand. she’s the kind of beautiful that make people stop on the street and stare. she’s the side-comment that makes you laugh until your sides hurt. she’s the open mind you just want to work your way into.
—  my sister the scorpio // sjf