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

June 1, 2016

I wish I could tell you why
God crept out from his isolation
And unfurled me from his
Calloused palm like an offering
To the alter of the world
"Be still" he murmured before
Circling the sun.

I am here now
A mesh of blood and flesh
And hands and
When I speak language drips out
Like a leaky faucet,
I start cars that go nowhere
And speak to people who
Can't hear me.
I drive down memory lane and
Look at all the fancy houses
I will never live in.
Inside their windows
Voices drift in wind shadows
Tonal hues of color and somber
Amber ringlets,
Pastels smeared on the inside of
Stained glass,
Flower petals pressed against
Sleeping infants.

I am good at holding a pencil
And taking shallow breaths and
Reading heavy books but
Even I don't do that anymore,
I am good at knowing the answers to
Questions everyone already knows
At repeating things I have been told
And writing the right words together.

There are the colorful silhouettes
Of your temples where
You craft beautiful things,
And I am outside
With the cold air and the empty pockets and
I will never be anything but your door man.

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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