Writing

If we’re not here, where

would we be? Who would I be

if I wasn’t me?

In the dark of the night when the winds start to call 

and the leaves in the trees shake and tremble and fall 

there is something that moves like a shadowing thrall 

I’m tired.

Tired of being another number on an attendance sheet.

I’m tired of waking early to work all day

I’m tired of a system made for the privileged 

My existence is not for others

it does not heal the wounded 

my words are costume, foam steel at most.

I exist to live a life that continues the cycle

I'm a mirror of society that has painted

remembering you

in snippets 

the off-key showtunes we sang at camp 

blushing when I walked over to your table at lunch 

a few card tricks we shared 

it's not a complete picture 

“It's like you've finally found your home and you know it'll always be there,” my friend’s older sister said, not bothering to look away from the passing fields outside the car window. I wanted to respond that my home is my best friend.