“Couldn’t be more obvious”
She scribbled on a note
previously used for something better.
Everybody knows
and it’s all or nothing now
so head first is the way to go.
Apparently, though,
the way to go is too shallow,
at least before high tide
on a clear, uncluttered afternoon.
“Subtlety’s for suckers”
She thought
And who’da thunk a shy kid like she
would be so explicit?
Is it a phase?
Those teen-age drama days
when the sun’s rays
made her shade her eyes but
set her spectral hair ablaze?
“Exactly what was it I was saying again?”
She said in her head
as she drug the pen.
The words that twist round my tongue and then
bend, transcend your average blend
of syllables and rhyme. and I’m
not certain where I’m going with any of this
but I’m pretty sure I’ll get there
and obviously
you just couldn’t care
waterworks.
toy dolls.
goosebumps.
peter piper.
payday.
life.
trapped.
despondency.
vicious cycles go round and round like so many wheels turning shifting changing.
when will someone cut the lifeline? tell me now or watch me fall
Filed under: Bittersweet, Experimental, Good Writing, Non-Fiction, Reflection
broken treetops glow
in the orange morning light
broken and alone
I take out the hairclip and redo my ponytail. There is Sharpie on my hands from where I coloured on my hair, so I wash my hands. I press too hard onto the soap dispenser and get soap all over my shirt and pants. I wipe them with a tissue.
I get outside just as Grampz pulls in. He hands me the grocery bag of various snacks, and tells me about the Terryville Fair this weekend. I have Saturday Detention. After he pulls away, I bolt upstairs and put the food away.
Clouds. They float above us, anti-gravity, pretty shapes. That one looks like an eye. I lie in the driveway, me in my black clothes against the crackled tar. Invisible to the naked eye, I’m a floating head, arms, and pair of blue canvas chucks. I see angel wings. Bird profiles. The Simpsons’ theme song. What is that? A rocket? An airplane? A racecar? No… no, it comes into focus. A fish. There is a distinct eye, mouth, and head. A fish. Reminds me of Jesus.
I remove my hands from under my head and wipe off the gravel imbedded in them. I spread my arms wide, lie them outstretched onto the roadmap of blacktop. I stretch my legs and rest one ankle upon the other. A gust of wind blows cool and crisp like the taste of Autumn.
I sit up, pick up my notebook, and write. As I do, I hear a “Hi!” I look up. The boy down the street greets the woman who lives on the second floor of his home. I think he glanced at me, but I’m probably wrong. I watch their conversation, but can’t hear anything.
He is cute. I like his emo glasses and his car. A small, red, just-got-my-license kind of car. He offered me a ride home while I was walking, already halfway there, in early winter last year. My paranoid Self kicked in immediately, and I blurted out, “No, I’m fine,” even though my hands were purple. He asked once more, and I reassured him. He’s never asked me again.
The sky is now full of melted clouds, spilt milk, no more pictures. I wipe tissue lint from my shirt and go inside.
