n the small crevices of her hands I find the endless hours of her playing guitar. In the hollow spaces where her eyes must have been, I swear I can find the desire she felt when she was with her first lover, three feet apart, struggling to get closer without the parents listening for clothing rustling down the hall. It must have been beautiful.

But now she's just lonely. I stare her down only to find that she cannot come to my level anymore. She sits scared in her room whispering to her thoughts, wondering when the "poor me" syndrome of these teenage years will be over. Shh, quiet, I say. You're really okay.

I remember the first time I visited her house. Her room was rooted to the ground. Her bed was a mattress sunk to the floor, her stereo was sitting there amongst a mass of wadded up papers and plastic cases. The room was filled with some horrible, melodic, punk rock anthem. We loved it. Plastered everywhere on those walls were torn out pictures of bands or random memories that she thought she could preserve simply by putting them up. Her old crush's binder, then thousand key chains. It was the epitome of clutter, it was the perfect example of someone who wanted to reacquaint herself with the past.

And although time has moved its along its thin teetering tightrope, Erin still lives in that past. For her the only future is blank and disgusting. The past is something she knows and cherishes, something she can manipulate to own liking, her own scenario.

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