i probably loved her most when she punched the pop machine.

she’d run from me into the dorm’s kitchen and squarely (and impressively) punched straight into the “o” in the giant, glistening “coke”. i watched her from the couch, watched her collapse into a folded, crying bundle of tears and anger and blonde and disappointment.

she lay there even as the girls came down to get their midnight chaser, looked at her mockingly, and inquired only to see if she would move out of the way so they could order from the bruised machine. she rolled to her side, pressing her damp cheek to the red to give them access to their needs, bending herself to their wills.

it’s the fallen ones that tend to catch my eye. something about damage, loss, anger, passion and the acknowledgment of all that, the embodiment of that weight, the rawness that’s undeniably attractive. and none had fallen quite as far as she had at that moment, from holy.. to there, in the basement of my dorm, curled and cuddled next to her ruby red friend.. who she’d just sucker punched in the gut.

ironically, she’d just told me she wasn’t sure she loved me anymore.