memories of being 12
life granted me sunlight to adorn my virgin hair
I ran, and I would fall
inevitably the ground kissed my knees
still, I longed how the wind caressed me
my scars comforted me
I’d continue running, until running was humiliating
she’d be too shy, too self-conscious
in my tender age, she never fancied sport
(this isn’t about running)
this was where something else begin
I shared a solitude with my diary
the lump in my throat would wail in ink
I taught myself to dance with the tedious tasks
of a 12 year old
let the words vomitted on the pages
(this isn’t about my diary)
in my tender age, she’d gravitate towards something else
and sorrow would follow
lost among the tangle of my hair
urging to stay
sorrow became the wind, the language of my pen
it was too early but I learned the shapes for loneliness
too tender when she drenched herself in its euphemism
