Space Camp

I thought of being an astronaut. But I’m afraid of heights.

I could be a guitarist. But I hated Middle School choir and they usually sing backup.

Once my Mother suggested I go out for the track team. I’m picky about shoes though,  and they didn’t have my color.

I dread a future of ever being an astronaut, a guitarist, or a track star because of my own quick concluded mind. I extinguished those futures like tears on lit birthday candles. Sizzle.

I wanted to be a princess.  But it isn’t “in my blood”. 

You can’t tell me what’s in my blood.

Or my drippy knees

Or knobbly nose.

Or my blood.

That’s thick-headed and shortsighted.

Indiscreet.

Half-baked: [haf-beykt,]  adjective , stupid; not thought through.

I sat up because of an improper thought that started a tapping in my marrow and a pulsing in my lashes. You may have aimed for my eyelids but the pain seared out to my lashes. It was my blood that caused that wasn’t it?

You would say that.

I’ll write a story that gives you more freckles and tells your wife she’s on fire. 

 

Just, Hazel Grace