Young Writers Society

you know what they say,
what a guy keeps in his locker,
stays in his locker?

well, I used to steal your microscope
the one locked up in chains.
the don't touch, caution taped...
yeah. i snatched it and used it and
turned it all the way down, the way you hate,
so that I may see through your petty physics and at the core of all things,
truth in unfocused images, more real than real.
because when I close my eyes again, this is what I see:
a black man's freckles
or a white girl's tears
fissures of colors and irregularities
perhaps all things you. all things me. oui.

back then
all we had were these classes
and notes and texts and projects, an intellect's game--
the you-call-me-first-I-call-you-first,
oh, but just for school in case the parents found out.

past all the french, checkers, math; past all the molecules
upon molecules,
histories of stories, electrons, space--
I'd come to see the unraveling of laughter
yours like a hyek hyek hyek - and that did it,
I was in blurry-fucking- eyed love,

yippie- yi- yo.

take responsibility for what you've done,
a frankenstein's monster unleashed out of me.

sometimes I think you purposely
left your locker open,
to make it easier to get inside
but I'd never take anything

without putting it back
just the way you hate
and have you to turn right-side-up again.