Writing

I write too much of things that aren't real. The imagined fear and pain of living a life I haven't got.

This life I have, this life is real, and I am on the precipice of demise. 

"I have a story to tell."

The bench is cold as glass and the fog strings its way across the street,

an engulfing mass of smokey water.

The bus is late.

I’ve been getting unreasonably upset recently 

I don’t know what's wrong with me 

Everything comes out as a silent plea 

I lay in bed at night,

thinking about my day.

For the mean whispers and comments hurt me

More than I am able to say.

The following morning is not better.

The sun is out, not a cloud in sight.

"Oh little girl,"

They say with distain 

Usually followed by a suggestion on how to change myself 

But I don't want to change 

"Oh little girl,"

With tears in their eyes 

Blue and black blur as the football spirals through the air, 

My hands outstretched, 

The ball tumbling closer and closer. 

I drop it.