Sta.sh
I choked on orange juice today
as I cried for myself at the kitchen table,
remembering the last letter
you wrote—how it created a barrier between
the small hours we'd spent scraping our backs
against tree trunks and now.
I told myself I wouldn't shed a tear
but I was always a good liar.
I cannot make myself forget our conversations
at the edges of street corners, where we sat
feeling the sun paint our skin red, asking why
our hopes got cut out of us as children
and whether friendships lockets meant anything.
It might have been better if we'd never met.
It certainly would have been easier.
But at one time I would have bent over backwards for you
until the bones of my spine broke;
at one time you sat with me in a school cafeteria
and let me have your orange. I never told you this
but I declared you my hero that day.
Our worlds of simplicity once converged
forming our own personal Pangaea
before awkward silences, impulsive desires, and betrayal
pulled them apart.
Our world transformed
into two countries—diverse and intolerant
but all we had left of our unity.
Now I sit in seclusion, collecting
thoughts of you as orange juice slides down my throat.
And all I can do is pity myself and choke.
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Aww, thank you so much! I'm honored!
Amazing work!