Sweaty-palmed half-truths: I know better than to duck my head.
But he wraps dandelion stems around my finger and spends his white seed wishes on the sanctity of my soul.
I can’t see through his semen.
My eyes are not in the craters of my tongue but on the soles of my feet:
The rhythmic blackouts of steady progress.
I know too much of puddles and sand and the second hand smoke I sucked from his breath the first time he kissed me slow and weighed my worth against the worth of the world.
I balance quarters on my eyelids and
it feels like cucumbers:
The thick death of sleep and inhibitions, I crawl
from the body bags beneath my eyes and
the light is sharp and loud is
most of never
never ends and
ever dies with sleep, with
his voice like the constant hum of fluorescent classroom lights-
like the constant whir of ceiling fans and and-
Age 15, Grade 10
Bard high School Early College