planting the seed. 2 p.m., july, zearing
the first time it happened
i wasn't used to it yet
i dragged my feet horizontally
placing bricks over tears:
emotional mortar
mind over matter.
neither one of us saw the weather report.
you called it teenage moping
as if i didn't have a bullet
inscribed sixteen-year-old girl
curdling in my stomach already
This poem is about:
Me