Writing

I have never been quite sure if books were truly just words on paper, the ideas of authors who are just ordinary people or if they are magic incarnate.  

Because they have never, ever just been words on paper to me. 

She walked out of her classroom, eyes scanning the walls. 

The desks, the hallways, the music room, the library. 

To some, these are just rooms or furniture. 

To her, they are everything. 

And now you come home at 12

Smeared mascara 

Red lipstick

Left with a sweet goodbye then 

Came back with sins you knew were sins in this 

She knew my heart was fragile. 

She knew it she knew it she knew it

Yet fire only burns brighter when more is added to it

She knows

How heartbroken I am how untouchable I can be

We ate a pint of Ben and Jerry's

together

in the back of your mom's car

that's what friends are

for

and then we skied

when the sun set

and the stars rose

and

The tips of our earbuds

Like closed-up flowers, echoing the melodies of drawn-out words

Connect, bone spurs on a spinal cord,

Pure and pearl-white in the midnight

Underneath the sun-bright lone street lamp on 4th Avenue