Young Writers Society

i remember summer days lying by the pool
on psychedelic towels, talking to my auntie
about popularity and how it was the same
when she was at school. unveiled pretentiousness
swims through the barriers of time.

the back of sonya's neck is crowded with tiny grains
of glitter shining where her junior school uniform dips.
her buttercup hair is apathetically tied back
so that it overflows. she's tired, resentful about
tomorrow's english exam. she's only in year seven.

i remember hot days walking around
in the shopping centre carrying our shoes
because they gave us blisters and getting told
by security guards to put them back on. it's strange
to think i ignore that girl now when we used to have crazy fun.

isabel's cocoa hair springs out in ringlets
after last period rushes of rain.
she's kind enough to give up her seat on the bus
so two chunks of thirteen-year-old glitter
can gossip together. she's only in year seven.

i remember sultry school days
walking barefoot and laughing through
the burning playground to maths when
mrs hall would yell at me to stop talking.
if only i got that nowadays.

sonya scratches her long nails
on the misty bus window down which
milky waterfalls of rain slither.
her hair is wet and she clutches
the candied taste of finishing end-of-year-exams.

i remember long sizzling days
in front of the fan, my hair sticking
to the back of my neck and my shirt
sticking to me like melted sugar.
we were all willing the weather to calm down.

isabel smiles and laughs
in the surrounding air of acceptence and attraction.
she's funny; they all laugh at her jokes,
and it's a sure bet she aced all the exams.
i am silent. the weather is heating up again.
written: Friday 5th November 2004, 8:19pm.