Friday, February 5, 2010


We sit in sloppy nests
amidst the eggs of education.
Shy hands flag down ideas,
cheeks tinged red and sticky with hand sweat.
We croak our uncertainties,
tracing our heads
through the wiring
of text messages,
and laptops;
emails and due dates.

Doctors notes excuse absences,
while teacher’s mechanical smile
forgets what’s absent.
The girl with the dirty hair
lost her nest,
she trembles in her nakedness.
Black veiled bullet hole eyes
rolling, she thinks:
there’s no doctor’s note
for a broken heart.

Mirrors should learn their manners,
white lies soften black eyes.
It was permanent, I whisper.
But the thing is
no one bothered telling me
about the nightmares.
I wash my hair these days,
my eyes are green.
They color me with potential,
but I don’t forget that girl.

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