Apr 2018
Once, in seventh grade,
I took a class in a portable
that had a bathroom built in.
I sat behind a girl
with brown hair
that always smelled like dryer sheets.
When she would write,
her shoulder blades would
glide under her cardigan
as if the wind of grace
was making waves
on the skin of her back.
When she stood up
her eyes moves to mine--
the only mobile dots on a freckled complexion.
She walked behind me
into the bathroom
and I listened to her ****
while the teacher explained
that X isn't always greater than Y.
I took a class in a portable
that had a bathroom built in.
I sat behind a girl
with brown hair
that always smelled like dryer sheets.
When she would write,
her shoulder blades would
glide under her cardigan
as if the wind of grace
was making waves
on the skin of her back.
When she stood up
her eyes moves to mine--
the only mobile dots on a freckled complexion.
She walked behind me
into the bathroom
and I listened to her ****
while the teacher explained
that X isn't always greater than Y.
I forgot most of my childhood and my developing years. I have a pretty bad memory. This was an attempt at remembering the tipping point when I recognized the grey in a world that used to be black and white, the glorious impurity about things I originally thought were perfect, and the subjectivity of math.
