This story isn't mine to tell

...but when has that ever stopped me?

On an inconspicuous alley-way corner, behind a humble, powder-blue house, stands a small A-frame memorial for a young girl. It’s hard to say how old she is; she could’ve been 17 or 22. I guess it doesn’t matter though, does it? Either one is far too premature.

It’s hard to conceptualize how unlearned we are at that age; I understand now how half-grown young adulthood sees us. And yet, I see her photograph, perfect brunette curls and ambiguous doe eyes, and I feel awful for using her pain to put my own into perspective.