Young Writers Society

silk of different pastels hooks its sharp,
roughly-cut edges into my eyes, plunging
down to my irritated, scarlet core.
plates of exotic entrees and arms around
shoulders and bright wooden backgrounds,
it was all a collection of blades.

hall lights stir feelings of being someone,
and a pretty thought in my head tells me to run.
it's easier to run in steep stilettoes than bare feet.
i try to sprint but all i get are rips and tears
in my skin and blood slipping steadily out.

my lies are so intricate and intoxicated
that they substitute for real life. i breathe a solution
of herhimthemthereitfuturepresent.

yet now a genuine smile radiates these walls.
band six, band five, it hardly contains
a cancerous cell. late-night twists of blankets
and sweating foreheads and bursting heads,
it's all over. for the moment.

so rain drips from the sky and i see her tears.
my mother dressed in black smells like cake.
i see floors of blondes, brunettes, redheads,
it's all a psychedelic riff of beauty. but plastic
pine trees glow warmly, and my fingernails
reflect the misty multicoloured lights.
written: Friday 10th December 2004, 3:53pm.