Writing

We lie inches apart, 
faces turned from one another, 
like two commas in the same sentence 
that never connect. 

And I looked, and there was this ugly brown girl asking for some less brownness, perhaps.

I am 15, that's young. 

I have just started high school and am experiencing a lot of firsts right now. 

Yet at the same time some days feel weird. 

The wind blows in my face, and I shiver. It's so miserably cold. I feel soft, little things pelting my coat. Lifting my hands, I reach them out and find little white dots speckling them.

We were birdsong
We were giant redwood trees
We were bones bleached by desert sun
We were metaphors and similes
We were poems and poets
We were wildfire
We were ebbing in and out
We were waves in the blue atlantic

The walls utter gossip at night.
They watch new women pass,
different steps, new perfumes,
claiming corners they'll never own.