Writing

A story you're told about once every year,

Details increase as you're judged old enough.

Then one year it stops, the story as sparse as it can be,

Everybody feels things,

No matter what they say or how they act,

Emotions run wild through the brain with no control.

Everyone has choices,

Her eyes fall upon me,

an array of pale blues and silver light.

They hold a look I cannot name,

yet my heart leaps all the same.

Her head tilts,

and a smile blooms across her face —

Body 

My body 

the one I don't really like anymore 

maybe I use to like her 

when I was younger and no one really cared 

if you had stomach fat or things that jiggled or a flat nose

(i mean)

the work goes on

(in shouted songs & permanent marker protest signs

in places i'm not sure if i can still call home)

the cause endures

(in all the children born to these times and

I am a notebook

spiral bound

spinning down the length of the paper

twisting

turning

twirling

until I hit the bottom

and then I spin back up

the lines passing by quicker and quicker each time