She frequently turns her head towards the window
So at least her thoughts can escape the room
The sheets on her desk do not need to know
What a waste it has been, ripping those out a notebook
She is the only one who does not get worn out
By my flood of thoughts or sudden drought
Even though I love people, I do not like them
But she calls them ‘nice’
It is both honest and stupid and real and you and me
And when I am who I am thinking about
Without a doubt - my right hand would turn gold
but my left one a heavy navy blue
I find myself crying; again
And dropping my phone on purpose; over anger
Until some stranger picks it up
And drives me home; I do not belong there – it is with her
How would she know?
- Chelsea A.
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