EvieC

sunday nights are my own.

old music in the corners of my mind

pen scratches on paper, ten thousand poems

two hundred and seventy-two

little golden lights, 4 walls

that mirror my soul.

Once, we met. 

My hair was up, and the world was coated with snow,

and you

 talked to me with wide blue eyes

and a slippery smile, easy to fall into.

B – 

Bones (noun pl.)

/bōn/

Poetry has a silent power 

In the way that poets 

don’t need words to communicate 

With one another; 

We simply see a wildflower 

i sit at the lunch table with my few friends,

i have so many thoughts at this time,

i am silent.

i need new friends.

i think.

new friends that don't treat me like i'm dirt.

She knows how intense she can be,

She knows she’s dramatic and overshares sometimes.

She knows she is holding herself back,

And she knows she can be happier.

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