nor will you grow to recognize
the way he strokes his thighs
in agitation
leaving tender streaks impermanent
to the bleeding shins
and almost kisses
never touching
never healing
and september’s sun sets
on bruises and potential
back at school she rides her bike --
nobody’s first choice but her own --
whistling circles to the closed up sky
and, in the hallways, on her way to the nurse,
she pretends to know what it is to die
something about the rain makes people drive faster,
she thinks, on her way home,
remembering the yellow days when the still languid air made time go slow
N.B. Believe it or not I'm wary of showing any of my creative writing to other people. I always think of the part in The Picture of Dorian Gray when Basil says something along the lines of not wanting anyone else to see the painting because it reveals too much of himself. I like writing things that make sense to me and not necessarily to anybody else, but I'm not nearly as confident about them as I am about my essays and stuff. I'm not really sure why I'm writing this note, except that maybe I feel that the poem itself would be too vulnerable to stand alone on the page without any prose at the bottom to alleviate the discomfort of feelings.
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