Cold Letters

Written by: Brooke Wolfe

I feel nothing but my hand to pen, to paper in a book; I feel nothing but the cold 
letters being written down under bags of a gaze.  My tired eyes droop to the 
bottom of the page in sorrow.  Freckled lights pollute the campus, casting yellow 
stares on my book, my life, my skirt.  The skirt I wear is full of color, unlike my 
emotion, and it’s wrapped around my bare cold legs covered with goose-bumps, 
falling asleep from a lack of blood-flow because they’re crossed in an 
unsuccessful attempt at impossible comfort on the hard, dusty grass-hill.  
There’s a planet in my eye.  Saturn floats in my brain cells.  Membranes freeze 
under your microscopic gaze.  I don’t want to live.  I know I’m not that depressed.  
I know this will end.  Well I can’t wait for this to end, to look under your 
microscope and see what you see.  You couldn’t use a telescope?  I suppose 
that’d be all the worse for me, for your pet bat in the attic who won’t shut up.  Let 
him keep flying and batting, I say; let me stop living though you know I’ll keep on 
for someone.  What a time to spill reason.  What a day to let devils loose and 
demons sail with strange powers thrusting their influential tug at my will.  
Strange powers push my goose-pimpled legs into a new tomorrow because 
every tomorrow is so different from today; it’s tomorrow, not today, after all!