maybe this is 
all just a film. 

an indie film 
starring troubled teenage girls 
finding out who they truly are;

a horror film 
starring an ex-convict 
being haunted by 
his petrifying past;

a romance film 
with cringy punchlines, 
sly glances in the hallways, 
passing notes during sessions, 
a wink or a two. 

this,
what we had,
was no more than
a documentary. 

the brusque strokes of color 
writing the art of detaching one's heart
in a single streak,
overwritten by harsh 
and rash decisions, 
regret bursting 
through the air,
the feeling of being torn apart 
by the swaying wind,
whispering,

the curtains
finally closed.