Clockwise direction around the table of old friends having lunch, the type that you hate, but they know too much and you lack too little energy for them to be replaced.
Catherine, Cathie. Fond of make up and expensive clothes. Not so fond of daddy dearest. Her phone resides in her blazer pocket, among the emptiness and eating disorders . The blazer slopes down her lanky shoulders, trying to buckle them and drag their pride down. Who knew nothing could weigh so much?
Ariya, Riya. Owner of a bright, generically ironic lunchbox, filled with the crumbs and wrappers left over from a reckless mind. Prone to disillusionment and stress, the lunchbox is a futile attempt to pretend that everything is alright, well at least, everything is more or less being held together by the teal band that seals the food in place. It's a modern day Pandora's box.
Hannah, the banana. Plastic bag is at odds with the superior, branded food concealed within. Chocolate bars unwrapped lovingly by petite fingers are transferred to the mouth that moves at a blur. Full on and unyielding it reaches top speeds at lunch when discussing other's business, yet remains silent on the topic that crests everyone else's lips. She's as silent as the grave.
Jane. Her frames are often left on the sticky table, balancing in an awkward angle. They reflect a lot: lies; non-PC comments and the spit of an overenthusiastic giggler. Blunt and metallic she appears, however she is lying to herself, looking out through onyx-tinted lenses that seem to suck up any empathy her father didn't manage to beat out.
Smithy, Grace. Carrots are cut into irregular cuboids to be chewed on instead of her nails. Never probably learnt how to cook. Or how to be nice either. What breaches the barricade of her mouth is probably self-taught speech. Parents as vacant as cooking skills. Carrots have a lot a vitamin C, but they don't offer nutrition for the growth of the heart unfortunately.
Kayla, Kay. Money for various sugary supplements pours over her fingers, yet coins can't buy a sweet and caring soul. Manipulation thrives off this saccharine diet, allowing her control to expand and swell with the help of plots and schemes dreamt up when on a sugar high. It's shame that her whispers aren't sweet nothings.
Me. Clear cellophane wrapping is an attempt to exude an openness, yet it's marred with scratches of paranoia, thereby making the view in murky and distorted. Nothing, including my omnipresent grin, is to be judged at face value- it's cover. Secrets entwine around my core, embedding themselves further at any misplaced comment by the aforementioned girls, until they 're too covered up to be gouged out. Sometimes it's hard to remind myself why I haven't disappeared off the face of the earth yet.