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Sink.
August 1, 2014
I am fifteen
and my friends never look at me
in the eye
boys stuff my soul
in the back pocket of their jeans
I am a foreigner to my skin
what if I’m not
who I’m supposed to be
and my dog is the only one listening.
My tears sink
into the feathers of my pillow
I don’t know who I want to be
There is a hole
in my lucky sweatshirt
that keeps growing
suppose no one remembers
my face
in the morning
and my dog is the only one listening.
Somewhere I don’t exist
but even here
I’m fading
Why do I have
to paint my face
to be seen
the sink in my bathroom
keeps leaking
and my dog is the only one listening.
© Lindsay L., Snohomish, WA
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