Graffiti Girl // Michael Clifford

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Stand in the mirror, and try to imagine forever. What does it look like, facing my greatest endeavor?

Suddenly closing my eyes, hands up for the very first time; I'm closing my eyes.

Tell me, "Don't give up!" Tell me, "There's someone out there!" Give me a pure love. Give me a forever that we both can share.

Show me it's okay! Show me it's all right! That I'm far from crazy for living by faith and not by sight.

«Tell Me» He Is We**

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"Take a walk with me," Michael said as we step outside. It wasn't a question, but I knew this wasn't him forcing me. I had the choice. I'd be lying if I said I wasn't slightly proud of myself for taking a step forward and grabbing his unprompted hand. It's kind of like the "one small step for man, a fucking leap for mankind." Maybe not, but the message there is similar. I could tell as much when Michael's eyes sparkled and he laced his fingers through mine. He expected me to trudge along behind him, or maybe just refuse to go at all. It wouldn't be the first time. It also wouldn't be the last, but it's a step. A slight shift in the right direction.

He leads us down the street in silence. It's still much too early for the sun to be peeking above the horizon, but the street lamps illuminate paired spaces in softened circles that fade away along the edges complete the atmosphere better than something as innocent as natural rays of light ever could. It's solemn and it's dark, but the lack of visible reminders of reality around us is comforting.

Even past the middle of the night, too early in the day to be considered true morning, the air is warm and dewy. When Michael first came into my life, spring was just beginning to bloom. Now two seasons have passed, another at its peak, and every aspect of my life has changed.

I was going to university. I didn't need to work thirty-plus hours a week to have any hope of gaining a degree one day. I didn't have reason to worry my mom would receive an unfortunate bank statement in the mail. I never had to come up with excuses to have at the ready if that day ever were to come. I didn't have an ugly, jagged scar along my side that would do nothing but raise questions if it ever peeked beneath my top. I didn't have to wear singlets under t-shirts, just in case. I didn't have a drinking problem, and never had to have my best friends pry a bottle from my fingers, or be held down while the murky liquid was poured down the drain. I didn't have a boy that loved me more than I loved myself.

We walk for a little while. It's mostly silent, the night still. The only movements our steady steps and Michael's occasional kisses pressed to my temple. Eventually, Michael pulls us to a stop. I look up from where I had been staring at my feet, and find us standing on the edge of a grassy park. A few meters away the grass ends at a circular patch of sand where a modest plastic jungle gym is set up in the center. Off to the sides there's a teeter-totter, animals propped on spiral springs, a roundabout, and a swing set. My lips twitch knowingly.

Michael tugs lightly where our hands are still joined and walks us across the field. He leads us all the way to the pair on swings before he turns to meet my eyes. Some of the hesitation I caught in his gaze melts away as he notices the lack in mine. He tentatively leans to leave a soft kiss on my lips before stepping back.

"Come on," he says lightly. He falls back onto the plastic slab, leaning away holding onto the chains. "Pull up a seat."

I'm silent when I sit on the empty swing, using my toes to gently push away from the ground. I get a rhythm going, but keep from going further than where my feet would have to leave the ground. The slight breeze created from the movement feels nice against the heavy air.