My daughter, Aubrey, has written over 200 poems (she seldom lets me read) This one is one of my favorites, because of her insight into something she has not experienced. It is better performed, but still really good in the written word. Especially surprised she let me post it. Hope you all enjoy it. Eye Contact - This morning, Bleach drapes herself in bleach. My pale skin rests under a white blouse, With navy jeans to compliment I brush and floss my teeth, Brush the gold silk wheeled from my scalp, And take a moment to dampen and dry my face, Looking at the mirror only on occasion. I down a small cup of water, Slip on soft sneakers, And join my bus for school. The driver always smiles at me gently, And such a small gesture makes me wonder If there’s anyone else in the world who smiles like that At school I become a tower Where paper airplanes make me crumble daily And whispers are sharp nails on an old chalkboard While words directly said to me break glass I don’t do much to them other than Not make much eye contact. And I always give them the same spiel of just being socially awkward. A boy in my 6th period mentions that every day. “Hey, hey! Look at me! What, you’re too good to talk to me? Hey what color are my eyes? Dang… You’re just cold.” Later another boy shoves me into a wall, and laughs as if my whimpers exhale the best joke he’s ever heard. Little does he know it’s not his shove I lose myself at, But the contact of a hallway wall Against the bruises under my pristine white blouse Little does he know The shoves given in the hallway I share at home Have been far more unkind Belt slashes built bone marrow in my rib cage, And I feel like a Famous Footwear catalog with all the boots that have tried me on Yet the poison that made its way to my chest from my ears Are what leave the darkest bruises Wars rage outside my peaceful tent Some know better as a closet. Nothing bad happens there, At least until the storm breaks through the door Storm of fractured knuckles against soft skin Skin to be grape flavored paired with cherry shins An hour later I am no longer a human being, But a bowl of fruit. I’ve gone past my ripen stage Yet my face has remained untouched to give off the illusion that I am still as sweet as an apple sitting in a tree But really I’m just hanging here Waiting not to breathe Daddy hasn’t been home for a few days And believe me I haven’t minded the silence, But I have been avoiding the hall to not be reminded Of his lingering presence I hear the front door open, And I presume it’s him. My heart beats through this mattress And my eyes are wet again But for the first time in my life, Shoes hit softly against the floor outside. I see a stranger Who walks into my bedroom and attempts to switch on the broken light I say to her, My lights don’t work She then asks me to step out into the hallway, And I scream at her, Hallways hurt! But later at a police station A man in blue questions me And eventually asks Why I never look him in the eyes I explained to him how My eyes locked shut How doors were shut and locked And how both became pointless to open I explained to him how in my life Mamas would only desert you And Daddys would hurt you To only try and replenish that desert of pain I saw a tear or two fall from his eyes As I began to tell him about my school and the people in it. And when I finished, He told me about how his son would always talk about a girl in his 6th period A girl with pretty blonde hair and a gentle face A girl with a shy smile when he seldom saw it A girl who threw paper airplanes at his heart daily Because she would never talk to him or look him in the eyes A brief moment passed, and I told the man in blue Maybe I would give his son an apple The next time I see him, And I just might look him in his green eyes and say, Hello.
Posted on: Sun, 29 Sep 2013 18:04:05 +0000
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