The kind of person I was is not the kind of person I am.
Just a body,
A potato sack of nards.
A tree turning red against a blue sky full of mourning,
Summer is dying and so is my heart.
Voices flutter like the birds,
So free and blinded as their broken wings fight against the impossible,
Sitting in a window is no way to live your life.
Sitting in a man is no way either.
Mother was sewing and pricked herself.
She didn’t forget to wince but she forgot to bleed.
She went to bed without talking and no food.
Bright white skin matching purple bags of restlessness awoke the next morning,
Only to find her children had been consumed by adulthood.
I sat feeling the summer kissed skin surrendering to the pink.
The pink soon darkened,
Slowly turning my skin red,
Then fell to white as winter sucked away summer from my mind and fall from my eyes.
Every night filling halls fat with loud voices,
Just yelling so that the truth could never enter their ears
Lies were slapping them blind,
Leaving them daft and retarded on the floor.
I went away from the tree turning red,
Never to see it again,
To experience its beauty,
Its hatred of the world around it dying,
Bending to the winter.
I still hear the yelling.
by Tracy Jayne, 12th Grade
photo by flummoxed1 via flickr