Writing

I saw a photo

Of you when you still had hair

Brown, nothing

Special, that hair was.

I forgot what you looked like

With hair that didn’t come off when you traded it

For a hat.

Black threads interlaced. 

Buttery seams–

The feel of dreams.

Baggy enough,

enough to be fitted.

Sprawled on the marley floor,

The pressure on your chest weakens as the craft gradually decelerates to a halt, and you find all the mass has been pulled out of you, leaving only your volume.

art is love and love pushes through.

Tears are cakey. They're extreme. Maybe that's why nobody wants to see them. It feels like you're seeing somebody nude. Can I tell you what I love? I don't know. I don't know. I don't know.

A self-portrait painted by writerfromva, age 17, of Virginia, in response to the visual art challeng