Maybe,
like steak,
it needs to marinate.
Maybe,
like soup,
it needs to simmer.
Or, maybe,
it’s like watermelon:
the one food everyone else raves about,
but I can never get into
so I leave it alone.
Maybe,
like steak,
it needs to marinate.
Maybe,
like soup,
it needs to simmer.
Or, maybe,
it’s like watermelon:
the one food everyone else raves about,
but I can never get into
so I leave it alone.
At parties I sit quiet and calculate my words
I avoid the eyes of guys and stare at my phone.
After all that hiding,
dissatisfaction feels like heartburn,
crying over a simple email
the lasts build a lump in my throat
last time beaming onstage
signing yearbooks
wearing a stiff blue skirt
One girl’s lanky frame against the dark turf field,
lit up by fluorescent lights
She saunters toward the building
holding another girl’s hand
Comments
Log in or register to post comments.