eyesore. // ginny interview.
Sept 29, 2021 19:19:49 GMT -5
Post by ✨ zozo. on Sept 29, 2021 19:19:49 GMT -5
Gradually, and over a long stretch of time, I realised nobody cared what I had to say.
Didn't stop me from talking, though. I thought the more I talked the more people would be forced to listen. That they might take a moment to hear me. It didn't work. Found that the more I talked the more frustrated people would get, a "Shut up Ginny!" flung at me with a slammed bedroom door. Just older sister things, my bottom lip trembling and howling to the moon. Momma was tired by then, creases on her forehead burying into her skin as she sighed and told me to pull myself together.
I skipped the talking bit and just went straight to crying. I didn't know how to tell them how I felt in a way that they'd listen, lost in a house full of loud-mouth girls who wanted the world. I'd just cry and get out my water colours, focusing my energies on the one thing I was good at aside from being miserable.
Nobody looked at my art. Nobody listened, and nobody looked, nobody cared, so I just wept and they called it puberty blues. So when the camera pans on me and a spotlight makes me sweat beads, shifting uncomfortably in this green dress and a hundred eyes on me, I freeze.
I don't know what to say. I've forgotten how to speak in front of an audience without crying. And I can't cry now. I already cried on the stage at home and in the Justice building and all the way to the Capitol on the train.
Better to say nothing than look the fool.
So I sit here, hiding my hands to stop them from fidgeting with my sleeves and wait for the interviewer to ask questions. It's disorientating, nobody cared what I had to say until I was going to die. And now that everyone wants to hear me, I've found that I'd rather they didn't.
So I just stammer quietly, batting my eyes along with the cracks in my voice -- "M-my name's Ginny, I-I'm fifteen and I like to paint."
Don't cry.
Don't cry.
Don't cry.
Didn't stop me from talking, though. I thought the more I talked the more people would be forced to listen. That they might take a moment to hear me. It didn't work. Found that the more I talked the more frustrated people would get, a "Shut up Ginny!" flung at me with a slammed bedroom door. Just older sister things, my bottom lip trembling and howling to the moon. Momma was tired by then, creases on her forehead burying into her skin as she sighed and told me to pull myself together.
I skipped the talking bit and just went straight to crying. I didn't know how to tell them how I felt in a way that they'd listen, lost in a house full of loud-mouth girls who wanted the world. I'd just cry and get out my water colours, focusing my energies on the one thing I was good at aside from being miserable.
Nobody looked at my art. Nobody listened, and nobody looked, nobody cared, so I just wept and they called it puberty blues. So when the camera pans on me and a spotlight makes me sweat beads, shifting uncomfortably in this green dress and a hundred eyes on me, I freeze.
I don't know what to say. I've forgotten how to speak in front of an audience without crying. And I can't cry now. I already cried on the stage at home and in the Justice building and all the way to the Capitol on the train.
Better to say nothing than look the fool.
So I sit here, hiding my hands to stop them from fidgeting with my sleeves and wait for the interviewer to ask questions. It's disorientating, nobody cared what I had to say until I was going to die. And now that everyone wants to hear me, I've found that I'd rather they didn't.
So I just stammer quietly, batting my eyes along with the cracks in my voice -- "M-my name's Ginny, I-I'm fifteen and I like to paint."
Don't cry.
Don't cry.
Don't cry.
thank u griffin! <3
