Cylindrical
Translucent purple And green
Omnipresent
After school hours
Grabbing the shoulder
Of the blue eyed
Choice
I was too naive
To distinguish from good
I used to pinch
The skin
While she spoke to the others
Over old decaf,
Coarse with escaped grounds
About husbands
Aggressive teachers
And bullying
It was a pastime
For me
And all I remember
Of those conversations
Is loose skin
In between my index, middle finger
And thumb
An extension of her
So bonded
It was as if
We were in the wild
Our entire lives
Picking bugs
Off of each other
In the morning hours.
About the Creator
A. Skillings
Writing poetry, musings and essays to make sense out of the world.
Happily married, cancer survivor, self care addict, retail worker by day, Netflix binger by night. Always searching for my next favorite book.
“Don’t Try”- Charles Bukowski
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Spectating
I can't imagine dying like this, in a place like this; on a cold, dirty pavement with rush hour traffic screaming by and a crowd looking on while paramedics struggle to find space to move. Who could? Deep down we all think there should be a reason, a moment of clarity... or a family presence, at least. For this man, this boy, the rail thin woman lighting a cigarette in a faux fur jacket will have to do - she's been here since the start, her eyes tracking the movement of my shoulders as we fight to keep him on the right side of the line.
By S. A. Crawford5 days ago in Fiction
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