Lacey Harms, Writing, Senior, San Antonio, TX
I have darted down the
sidewalk after the ice cream
truck, fiery asphalt turning
my soft, child toes red.
I have painted sloppy
pictures of toucans that
have ears too big, or bizarre,
purple-colored tongues.
I have clasped my hands, bowed
my head, repeating the melodic,
empty words of God, thank you
for dying for me until they stuck.
I have interlocked my sweaty,
pulsing adolescent fingers
with those of a lanky pubescent
boy who swore he loved me.
I have felt steady, burning eyes
watching, taking inventory
of my sacred, well-covered
body as I hurry to my car.
I have been transfixed by muted
strawberry lips that press against
my cupid’s bow, a heavy hand
that cradles my neck in the shadows.
I have been dazed, sedated by
desperate, unsympathetic longing
in the form of a strange drug
concealed in dark, chilled liquid.
I have danced, wearing down my
aching limbs, dislocating joints
and soiling ivory skin with ruptured
green vessels and raised tissue.
I have wondered if my memories
will continue to fade like the scar
under my chin until they feel more
like hallucinations than my life.
I have wondered whether these moments
ever belonged to me, or if they’ll
be taken, too, by the greedy hands
that have broken me already.