Skirt Over Jeans
Skirt over jeans,
the redhead wooed me first,
with her sharp tongue but gentle touch
I wished her to love me
As she loved the girl with the jet black, short hair
And I cried
And I yearned
And I dreamed and imagined
For a day that I would be that girl confined to a wheelchair
Only to have the spunky redhead tend to me
and love me
In her flowing skirt over jeans.
I must have been a girl of less than fourteen
Not understanding but a single thing
of what I felt when I saw her
light up my eyes as she lit the screen before me.
I watched her, religiously, for 120 hours,
Deliciously, for one year and 8 weeks
and over again
as I went to school,
in both seventh and eighth grades,
with my skirt over jeans.
I ignored stares and murmurs
for I had a stronger force compelling me
to the charming, fictional redhead
who existed, not in my world
but in someone else’s,
smiling and speaking wittingly,
to her young female companion,
who had needed her only slightly less than I did
when I devoted myself
to that redhead who preferred her skirt over jeans.
In the years since,
I must have forgotten her,
lost her in the shuffle of fleeting infatuations
that I had concocted for myself unintentionally,
trying to fill the void she left within me,
that astounding redhead
with her knee-length skirt over a pair of old jeans.