hummingbird girl

She's hidden, cowering in the corner,

as she waits, mouth open,

words frozen on her lips.

She does not speak.

I mold my sadness into poetry and she watches me,

amber eyes taking in everything and nothing.

I ask her about her life and she answers, 

in short bursts, as if she's forcing herself to.


Sometimes I see her in my dreams--

she's standing in a meadow there, sunlight streaked across her face,

wearing a white dress.

She waves at me.


I wait for the end of days to come even though it won't,

like how she waits for me, so patiently,

then says nothing as we walk down the hall,

fluorescent lights mirrored on the floor's glossy surface.


She held my hand once, she cried, mascara streaking her face like smog.

I told her everything would be okay--

what a superficial word that was, and she knew it.

But she still clung to my arm and said she believed me. 


Once she was mean--the kind of mean that hurts. She apologized later, but

the memory still stung.


She flits in and out of my life like a hummingbird, so effortless,

hair tied back and face plastered with her signature fake smile.

Sometimes I'm not sure who she is, 

until I see a girl in my dreams with sun in her face, and I remember.



14 years old

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