Back on the Bench
trying to find my way back to me
Tina in the library
pulls books she didn’t come for
takes them anyway
like she needs to understand them
outside she sits on a bench
there’s a quarter in her pocket
a spider crawling on her arm
she doesn’t know where either came from
he said color was too much
so they lived in white
like a plate with nothing on it
her room is violet now
the kind that screams in your face
and doesn’t apologize
in her kitchen
cinnamon sticks split at the ends
cloves in a jar with no lid
an orange left too long
Tina was kind once
before it got used against her
she said things for a while
that didn’t sound like her
she runs her hands
over the same rough places
like sandpaper—
maybe damage and repair
happen the same way
at night she leaves the book open
face down on her bed
people whisper about her spiral
don’t ask where it began
Tina doesn’t explain it
she reads on a park bench
turning pages like it’s nothing
About the Creator
Tina D. Lopez
I’m just a human trying to make it in this world. I write about heartbreak, loneliness, longing, anger, family—all the things I can’t seem to leave alone. Everything I write is about me, even when it’s about someone else.
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