Young Writers Society

And she?

She is creating a democracy of ink stains on her fingertips
Waiting for the time to step out into the soft glow of morning
The dim lights casting her face into oblivion
Against the overwhelmingness of the atmosphere
As it breathes smoke and perfume into her face.

She hopes when she leaves they will not dig up the bones
And critisize her for all she could have gotten right
If all the variables had been set in their proper places
Mirror against walls, still,
Another lie still.

She sneezes --
Another addition to the scrapbook.

Thank you,
Mother.