Seven Ways I’ve Felt the World End

One.   
Unsupported above a globe of tiny-craft houses, bouncing up and down through an era of clouds. We are experiencing some mild turbulence in a metallic voice, Mom sobbing on my shoulder, narrow hallways of small windows hinting at doom.
Two.   
They all stare in mocking disbelief. I want to leave myself behind, like a handprint in frost, to fade smoothly forgotten. But I can’t unglue their eyes from my downcast face, it’s a mousetrap.
Three.    
We’re going to have to do a quick strep test. The uncompromising scent of Purell acidic in my nose, the cotton swab nearing my mouth. It looms like the monster who kidnapped me in that dream I had when I was three. It’ll take two seconds. Just open your mouth and say “ah.”
Four.    
You kicked the door closed so hard I thought the house was falling down.
Five.   
Each streetlight I pass flickers as if to ask me, are you really where you think you are? Can’t trust any face I see, the contours of jawlines blur and scatter. My throat is too tight for me to swallow. My stomach twists and burns. Keep going, keep going, keep going.
Six.   
We can’t go on like this anymore. As if the carpet’s been snatched from under my feet, I tumble down, down, where am I going, am I sinking? I must be because I’m clutching everything around me, blindly snatching at soft cotton and cold tiles, but I can’t buoy back up. All the midnight car rides I’ve never had have already been driven away.
Seven.   
After a storm, it always sounds like something is singing. Wetness lingers, mind is numb and I can breathe free. It’s a very quiet place and I’m going to sit here reading forever, because time has stopped. Clocks never meant anything. I’m probably not even human anymore. I’m part of the tree bark. The dim sun wants to keep me here, I’m its friend. We’ll stay here reading and being silent and breathing the wind into our lungs because nothing can interrupt us.

Colette G. (High School, 2011-2) (p#10343)

Bonus Poems for 28 Feb 2012...