Wednesday, November 4, 2015

Teacups In Her Backpack

She kept teacups in her backpack
And wrote notes on her hands that no one understood but her
In fact she was a blackboard
She had tattoos and freckles so she turned modernism into picasso
She liked to roll up the cuffs to her jeans and sleeves so more light could touch her and
Maybe soak its way through to her soul
Or at least her bones
Because her father told her her bones were too small and
One day someone was gonna come along and break them all and claim it was an accident

She wore closed-toed shoes because she never knew when life could drop hot soup on her lap
She kept stones in her pockets so if she started to sink she could throw them overboard
And have a chance of staying afloat
She sits at her own table and makes her own lunch
And she’ll eat it with the backs of pens like chopsticks

Sometimes she wished everyone breathed like her
In a rhythm even when she was sitting still
But then they’d understand how her heart worked and she
Didn’t like that idea quite so much
Then they all might keep teacups in their backpacks
And it would no longer be beautiful

-E.B.

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