Rovva

For nine years, I've been a part of YWP and for nine years, I've felt seen by this community. Even as I've grown up, I've watched new young writers come and share their thoughts, emotions, and stories.

In sixth grade, our class had a show-and-tell every week,
and every week, a small handful of students were selected to participate in the next one.
As I was selected, anxiety kicked in.
I wasn't really proud of anything.

They carried you away in a black hearse.
Our black eyes,
beaten and bruised by love,
caressed your black coffin.
They opened your casket and there you were,
your eyes closed,
relaxed and so cold,
and yet you seemed so alive.

It comes and goes in waves,
the throbbing in my throat,
in my chest,
and in my heart.
It seeps in and out again,
the fires in my eyes,
in my stomach,
and in my lungs.
It flaps and thrusts about,

Blending together, swirling in confusion,
I can hear them bicker.
As though it were a classroom, I take attendance.
Mom?
Oui? C'est quoi?
Izzie?
Uhhh, my name is actually Death, but here! (Haha)
Mrs. Brune?

Fields of stone angels,
depictions of divine sorrow,
stained with wetness,
cracked and crumbling,
aged terribly and unkept,
shake beneath my hand
and weep into grave soil.
She went too soon.
She was just a child.