Click

Lifting your finger
You touch the reflection
On a blurry, gloomy
Plate and touch the shape
Of your face.

Like last week when
She said good-bye
Leaving you to smile
At a leaf floating
Between leaves
Between oranges, like
The fruit but thinner,
And you look in the cracks
Of the bark and put
Your ear to it and
It creaks, cries, shrieks,
Howls.

Then you remember dinner
Mother waiting in bed
For a meal, or two, or
For you to lift your plate
And show her its empty.

--

Come here, I heard you fall

There is an island that reminds
The sky of a day two times older
Than yesterday when the clouds
Were made of parchment and
Crackled as they blew.

Like a multitude of butterflies
Or a flagrant song of a youthful
Nightmare that crawled through
The door with hands made of wax and
Skin of splotchy green and black and
Blue, it reminds the sky of someone.

A joker, a smiler, a giggling young
Toy meant for a shelf but falling
Once a day like a sweater from a
Hanger that nips at a falling sleeve.
There that day the sky swam in the sea
Surely seeking, screaming, south; down.

"Come here, I heard you fall and

(I've been watching you.)

Roll beneath the desk and grab with
Your splintering hands at the floorboards

(Like little wooden dice that old men
Are throwing in the evening.)

Because you have to make sure that
Your feet are out of the light."

(Or maybe you remembered that the
Nightmare loves the dark.)

--

Your guy will leave you cozy

Little drips are pulling,
Little thoughts are yelling,
Little mice are scampering.
And as a tale disappears beneath
A table and a pair of glasses droop,
A silver hand reaches long
And pulls up a book
With pages made of leather a
Cover made of silk
Ink as green as seaweed
And a smell like rancid salmon
Tempting, pleasing, pleading
Curling tongue deep in throats.

Because it makes you shiver

(Riverbeds do.)

And pull someone into yours.

(Because your mother did it too.)

And kick his feet off yours
When his legs are
Tangled all in yours
And his hands are beneath his cheek
And the blanket is on the floor
And the cold is dancing at your door
Your riverbed imitations are weak
Your mountain range mimicry is
Because you have to or else
You will be an earthquake
Because your mother called you a
Something that rhymes with the last
Word eight lines up.

And those legs tangled all in yours:
The only person with hair shorter
Than yours that you've seen all day.

Your riverbed imitations are weak,
Your heart is pounding quickly,
Your eyes are glazing slowly,
Your guy will leave you cozy.

--

I heard a bench in a park
In a square of concrete.
It nearly ran at me but it
Was fast in cement with
Pigeons sitting
On it and they sang,
I think.

I've never heard a pigeon
So I just suppose they're
Like doves.

--

I'm playing the flute
Or the violin
Or maybe I'll do one better
Than play an instrument.
I might summon the past to my
Door and smile at it or I'll cry.

Yes, I think I will cry.

--

I'm a little nosy like
Yesterday I listened to my
Neighbors and they were ladies
And they sometimes cook and
They have skirts.

It went:

"I was raped a while ago."

"Oh? Me too. Was it your first?"

"No, but it still bothered me."

"Yeah, but after a while you get used to it."

"I don't know why they do it."

I feel like crying.

--

I think I might begin a diary.
I have one right now.
It is in a convenient notebook I
Found beneath my computer stand
And it is filled with little secrets
And creepy little songs
And frightening little obsessions
And boys for whom I long
And little conclusions
I jump to far too much
And irrational fears
That I think of too much.

I mention a boy named something
So common its pretty.
He had pretty eyes. He
Has a voice I like to smile at
And I think he sneezes cutely too.

--

I thought about this girl last year
And the year before that.
Now I see her everyday and
Even though I never told her I thought
She was pretty and that I liked her,
I find her to be like any other person.

--

I used to like commas and
Brackets and parentheses
And braces(not for your mouth.)
I used to like dreaming;
I used to stay in bed all day
To dream more of a little
Castle on a hill with a tree house at
The foot with some poisonous bushes
Across the street from it.

(From the tree house not the castle.)

--

I used to think I had to try and
Get perfect grades and be ever teacher's pet
And be happy and be loved and be held and be
Whispered to at night.

Now I know for a fact that I hate when something
Or someone speaks to me when I sleep because
Then I spill the contents of my dreams, of my soul.

--

I hate living.
I hate dying.
I hate trying.
I am afraid of failing.
I have two ears.
I have a nose.
I want rhinoplasty.
I want a new soul.
I want a real heart.
I want to know.
I love to think.
I hate to think.
I am bored.
I am slow.
I am tired.
I just have to know.
I hate knowing.
I hate seeing.
My eyes are blurring.
My glasses are uncomfortable.
I have to get used to them.
I have to cry.
I am leaving to the movies later.
I had better keep dry eyes.

--

A/N: I will update my stories soon. I will write a poem soon. I hope you did not think this a poem. Because it is and is not and might not be and it could be true or false or greater than or equal to the square root of 11. Like anyone gives a care. I have homework. I have sleepiness. I have to get a hobby that does not involve typing. I am playing an instrument soon as soon as my mom gets me one(And she takes as long as I do to get around to doing things.)