Young Writers Society

29/30
Clustered Us, Clusterfuck

I can’t understand why you were so keen on
making a clusterfuck of us
.........you take us apart
...........unwind
.............take pictures of each snippet
and they're all overexposed

And then you lay them all out on the table. Watch
me expectantly. Each polaroid too shadowy or too
glaring and so I tell you 'not really much to see, I suppose.'

Gruff laugh of yours, (harsher than in those first weeks)-
well, did I ever claim to be 
some great fuckin' photographer or no, 
was it just that we
really weren't much to see

30/30
Bye
this is the last poem
of the last full month of the last
year of being stuck.

cap and gown slung still
in the flimsy plastic bags on my floor,
my prom dress worn in,

my books steadily dissapearing.

Today I had my first job interview. I thought
I'd get stuck bagging or ringing up
people's groceries but instead I might
be given my own small garden of a floral department
(bouquets and balloons and boutonnieres)
that smells sweetly and is quiet.

I have a life ahead of me that
is still not quite found. But dear god, it looks
so much more beautiful than it did last year.

It smells of textbooks and freedom, of a red car that drives
fast and is all mine, and of flowers and maybe even
of a place of my own soon, my own and a friends, and coffee and
paints probably always.
It is close,
and for the first time I can feel it all changing.