Written June 23, 2017:
The hair on my arm rises
More than it should
I choke on my own breath
I can only take in so much at a time
Across from me sits a girl
Drowning in the smell of pens
And rubbing alcohol
Eyes deep set
Fingers barely enclosing her phone
Hair hangs low over her face
Body shape one
With a story already written for it
I shouldn’t be the one to judge
But I do
I am one of them now
I think to myself
The girl gets up
Her walk as hollow
As my bones
Her stride as slow
As my heart
Called away for something unknown
And known too well
I wait my turn
And pretend instead I am waiting for someone else
An illusion created before my eyes
I don’t need help
It all washes away
Swept up by the flood
That is the sound of my own name
Being called
My Fast 