Cold Letters
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!
Copyright © Brooke Wolfe | Year Posted 2007
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