Young Writers Society

of searches and endings

we watched the seventh Harry Potter movie tonight
my sister and i
her first time, my second.
and it swept us off our feet and plunged us
into emotion
like we knew it would,
and we still clasped hands every second of the way
till we couldn’t feel our fingers
something to remember hope by
as we tore ourselves apart and loved every minute.

and i don’t know why it hurt so much
when Dobby died and i knew it was coming
why do i do this to myself?
and at the end when the credits roll,
our hands finally unclasp.
the pins-and-needles remind me of the real world,
maddening.

i’ll walk down the hallway at school tomorrow
past the gossip girls discussing last night’s party
and i know them though we’ve never spoken,
and i don’t know why i’m always right, but
crushes and boys and bands are their language.
it bores me to tears and i don’t know why
i can cry over a fictional death
but i can’t care about a football game.
what am i looking for?

i’ve sought the answer in late-night hours
hunched over, hesitating
peering down a dark hole
at this mess of me,
hoping a poet’s lens can cure
nearsightedness.

and so far it hasn’t, but i see a little clearer
and that is enough for now
i am tired,
and at last i may rest in peace.
so i bid myself goodnight,
and adieu.