Ms. Widman 11th & 12th Grade
The little girl
sees things her own way
she doesn’t pay attention to her classmates
she likes her knees scraped
and her bunny covered in mud.
Her dolls don’t date
they fight
she’s not their mom
she’s their leader.
Her hair is blunt and slightly uneven
but she likes it that way.
She doesn’t listen to nursery rhymes;
she listens to Bikini Kill.
The little girl
plays dress up
she dresses up as
Courtney Love
Joan Jett
and
Mick Jagger.
The little girl
was meant to
be seen
and
heard.
The clock strikes 12
on my 9th day as queen
a position forced upon me
by those around
I’m only 17
but I carry weight on my shoulders
it digs into me like a sharp blade
detatching me from my innocence
one blow and I’m gone
as delicate as a daisy
I could go on
but my education stopped at 10
so I can lead those who are older
and wiser
The clock strikes again
louder than ever
with a soft thud
blood pools out onto my porcelain white dress
my body goes numb
then limp
my head rolls like a bowling ball
never looking back
for that wasn’t a clock
but it was a knife.
This may cause a minor setback
and the need for a new queen.
It was just the two of them
together between a reflection
of the clouds
and ocean blue void.
It was her slick witted violin,
her tempestuous attitude,
the golden hair and blue eyes
that blended between the
sun and skies.
It was her and that’s all he needed
to collide the audience with the constellations
with just the notes of his piano.
It was their last duet,
a duet dressed in the
figments of his imagination
as her heart beat slowly stops
in the ER.
The made up blue lights dim
as her figure bursts
in front of him
like shooting stars
as she fades into a memory.
He pleads and confesses
the things he never said
the things of unrequit
and feelings only
encapsulated in the music
his last recital with her
not being a duet
but a recital
of words untold
between two
contrapuntal hearts.
As he lets her go
and says
“goodbye.”