the unfolded note I thought he wrote
said you’re beautiful, I watch you watch
me stretch sixth period and want to
kiss you tomorrow behind
the gymnasium after the last
bell rings and the other seventh
graders are gone for the day, come
to me there alone, we’ll want
want no one to see us. when I went,
heart a spin cycle of nerves, breath
a hot riot of watermelon flavored gum
and gloss, the truth was worse than
the new ritual of stained panties, worse
than the harsh snaps of training bras, his
friends waited without him, laughing.
today's prompt: write a poem about a memory. The memory can be good or bad. The memory can be a blend of several memories.
A native american friend tells me he can't sleep either. His patterns are from trauma, the unfortunate war on terror he was a pawn in, the ptsd he carries with him everywhere he goes. He paces and packs a gun because he is always anxious. I told him once maybe it is because he is from a tribal culture where polyphasic sleep is considered normal and it is not in his genes to sleep eight hours at a stretch and it is in his genes to be a warrior. I don't have those reasons. Interesting though, because I tend to lack sleep when I am most creative. Maybe my heart pounds that late (or early) because it is excited about the creativity the day will bring. Maybe I make excuses. I'm going to try running.