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Orange This work has been published in the Teen Ink monthly print magazine.

Maybe New York is a city of birds.
Feathers flying from their ears
and cloaking them, those birds who strut.
But my bones are shut up in this body,
as if the stripes on my shirt were jail bars.
You have graffiti sticking to your back
like sweat, and yet
that ink serves as wings. Still,
you've been so hungry that you nibbled my skin
like a pigeon in Central Park that neared me.
You don't know about that pigeon,
that's a memory all my own
that reminds me of my independence from you.
But, god, you have dead eyes.

This work has been published in the Teen Ink monthly print magazine. This piece has been published in Teen Ink’s monthly print magazine.





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