Conceited

Today in English, we were writing conceits, and I started to write one about how separation is like perfume, how it pervades every area and gets into places you wouldn't expect and lingers and leaves before you want it to, and everywhere you smell it, you remember. It's in the scarf you wore when you went for a walk in the bitter cold and the movie you watched together and the room where you played board games. Then when it's gone, you think you've forgotten but then you see someone else with the same scent; they have the same gloves, or you hear one of the old songs when you're watching TV or in the supermarket, and it all comes rushing back.

Then I realized that my English teacher would be reading these out loud to the class, so I stopped mid-sentence and wrote something about how hate is like rain.

I know what I wrote isn't very good in terms of literary merit. It was trite adolescent crap, and so is this post. But the emotions were there, and that disarmed me. I thought I was OK now.

I definitely wasn't expecting my pen to write those words. Damn pen.

It's easier to limp. Less noticeable. I don't want a cane.