She's awake.
I bring her downstairs.
I lead her there by her cold, pale hand.
Trembling and fragile like a porcelain doll, she's too tall, too active, too old to be porcelain.
We need somewhere to sit.
I don't know what's wrong, but I think she warned me about this before we left.
We knock into chairs and tables in the foreign place.
Finally we rest on a block of brick.
She trembles.
What do I do?
She trembles.
I stay.
She trembles.
She can't help it. She's helpless; sickly, sick.
I'm awake.
I need some water.
Laughingly, they greet me, stumbling and sloppy, and still passing two bottles.
I laugh along until she doubles over, head out the window;
Porcelain arms gripping the window.
Her dinner is out the window.
She sits in front of a trash can.
I sit beside.
What do I do?
Chicken and pasta fill the can.
I sit beside.
What do I do?
Her new friend holds her hair back.
What do I do?
I leave.
Wednesday, February 4, 2009
Saturday, January 24, 2009
A Conversation; in which Both speakers Neither Look at each other, Nor are completely Honest.
Wednesday; 1/21/08, 2:00-ish p.m.
1 SO, how are classes?
2 Oh, you know.
1 What are you taking?
2 Oh, I can't even think of them all. I already have so much homework. Like Senior Writing. We missed our first class last week because of the weather, but we already have a ton of homework.
1 Oh, yeah? You're taking Senior Writing?
2 Yeah.
1 When?
2 Thursdays.
1 What time?
2 Uhhh. . . Noon-thirty.
1 What teacher?
2 Barbra. . . . Oh, do you have it too? Did you go to the Library yet and do the reading?
[the conversation continues along those lines until speaker 1 gets up to go]
2 Ok, well Tomorrow's Thursday, isn't it? I'll see you tomorrow, then.
1 Yeah, See you tomorrow. At Noon-thirty.
1 SO, how are classes?
2 Oh, you know.
1 What are you taking?
2 Oh, I can't even think of them all. I already have so much homework. Like Senior Writing. We missed our first class last week because of the weather, but we already have a ton of homework.
1 Oh, yeah? You're taking Senior Writing?
2 Yeah.
1 When?
2 Thursdays.
1 What time?
2 Uhhh. . . Noon-thirty.
1 What teacher?
2 Barbra. . . . Oh, do you have it too? Did you go to the Library yet and do the reading?
[the conversation continues along those lines until speaker 1 gets up to go]
2 Ok, well Tomorrow's Thursday, isn't it? I'll see you tomorrow, then.
1 Yeah, See you tomorrow. At Noon-thirty.
Friday, January 23, 2009
ouch.
It’s the eight grade. He offers me a mint. Our fi rst names start with R and S; our last names start with S and Q, so I’m put near him often. He grabs my hand in gym. His green eyes flash with rebellion. I’m a sheep. Baaaaa.
He rejects me.
He tries to make me laugh.
He calls me horrid names.
He cannot make up his mind.
I was confused then, but I can see now; he was always destined to choose not me.
It’s the eleventh grade, and what a weird kid he is. The stage lights make him half magenta,
half green while he auditions as a Shakespearian king. We joke about scissors. When he leaves
a room, I can still smell his cologne. He follows another girl who continually rejects him.
He rejects me.
He wants to know, “can I give him a ride home, though?”
He cannot make up his mind.
I see now that he was always destined to choose not me.
It’s the twelfth grade, and I press on. This Sophomore keeps telling me I’m beautiful, “like Angelina Jolie.” Strange. No one’s told me I’m beautiful before.
He rejects me because I’m leaving.
I’m fighting tears so hard, I barely notice he’s kissing my cheek.
I drive home even though I can’t see.
He flirts with me more than ever now.
I overhear him telling someone he got back together with his ex.
He cannot make up his mind.
He was always destined to choose not me.
It’s Sophomore year in college; I finally admit to myself I like him. People think he’s haughty,
but I love the way I feel walking down the hall next to him, matching his long strides. He’s
really just shy, I decide.
His best friend hates me. I’m competition.
He never rejects me. I’m just not as pushy as her. Besides, I’m starting to get the pattern.
He would have chosen not me.
I’m a Senior now. But not a woman.
I’ve always known he existed. I’ve always thought he was cute, since the moment I first saw
him walk into class, late. He would always just smile this huge smile at me when I presented
my work. For some reason I never talked to him until now. We work together, we shake hands.
He tells me, “don’t be a stranger.”
He never tells me about his girlfriend. But I did my research. It’s a small school. I know. He tells me about his brothers; I know his parent’s professions; he likes gears; he’s always late.
He mentions her to Ryan, but he never mentions her to me.
He cannot make up his mind.
I don’t know what to do.
I know what will happen.
I know what to expect.
He won’t choose me.
Why can’t I stop Hoping?
Why can’t I just be content?
Why can’t someone choose ME?
He rejects me.
He tries to make me laugh.
He calls me horrid names.
He cannot make up his mind.
I was confused then, but I can see now; he was always destined to choose not me.
It’s the eleventh grade, and what a weird kid he is. The stage lights make him half magenta,
half green while he auditions as a Shakespearian king. We joke about scissors. When he leaves
a room, I can still smell his cologne. He follows another girl who continually rejects him.
He rejects me.
He wants to know, “can I give him a ride home, though?”
He cannot make up his mind.
I see now that he was always destined to choose not me.
It’s the twelfth grade, and I press on. This Sophomore keeps telling me I’m beautiful, “like Angelina Jolie.” Strange. No one’s told me I’m beautiful before.
He rejects me because I’m leaving.
I’m fighting tears so hard, I barely notice he’s kissing my cheek.
I drive home even though I can’t see.
He flirts with me more than ever now.
I overhear him telling someone he got back together with his ex.
He cannot make up his mind.
He was always destined to choose not me.
It’s Sophomore year in college; I finally admit to myself I like him. People think he’s haughty,
but I love the way I feel walking down the hall next to him, matching his long strides. He’s
really just shy, I decide.
His best friend hates me. I’m competition.
He never rejects me. I’m just not as pushy as her. Besides, I’m starting to get the pattern.
He would have chosen not me.
I’m a Senior now. But not a woman.
I’ve always known he existed. I’ve always thought he was cute, since the moment I first saw
him walk into class, late. He would always just smile this huge smile at me when I presented
my work. For some reason I never talked to him until now. We work together, we shake hands.
He tells me, “don’t be a stranger.”
He never tells me about his girlfriend. But I did my research. It’s a small school. I know. He tells me about his brothers; I know his parent’s professions; he likes gears; he’s always late.
He mentions her to Ryan, but he never mentions her to me.
He cannot make up his mind.
I don’t know what to do.
I know what will happen.
I know what to expect.
He won’t choose me.
Why can’t I stop Hoping?
Why can’t I just be content?
Why can’t someone choose ME?
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)