Young Writers Society

it hurts to think.

thinking brings salty crystal drips
tracing paths down my cheek
and a million insecurities take over.

i never meant to feel this way.

i remember
licking ice-creams in the piazza
our dungarees dirty with mud
my skin looked black against your pale white hand.

i flirted, age 8, with the ice cream man, age 18
you laughed
until you saw the way my ice cream was bigger then yours,
then you sighed in jealousy

so we swapped.

we lay on hot tiles by the blue swimming pool
birght swimming costumes wet against our flat chests
in voices that smelt of bubblegum and grapes
we spoke of eyeshadow and daydreams and teddies and heaven.

we got our diary keys and cut our thumbs
with the pointy edge
in the darkness of the siesta

and in the flickering flame of a candle
stolen from a church hall
(forgive me, padre)
we pressed our thumbs together
and vowed to be friends forever.

we don’t talk any more.

i wish i was still in dungarees
with dirty knees
and freckles dotted on a brown face
swapping ice-creams and secrets and blood.

now,

life is more storm then sunshine

and now,

i can’t find the scar on my thumb.


this is a poem i sent in to TYWC as well, but i just wondered what more people thought of it