by Mara M., 16
Today my thighs created a run
In my black tights
But I did absolutely nothing about it,
Almost feeling like a scandal,
A tasteful wreck, if you will,
The spider web thread
Giving me something to weave my
Chipped-nail-polish fingers through
When class got boring.
And the guy at my lunch table told me
“I bet you listen to rock or whatever”
And he was right,
My earbuds suddenly sleeping
Electric strings and symbols into my eardrums
Like it was a soundtrack for this outfit.
It felt like I was wearing poetry.
And my cherry red Dr. Martens
(The ones that look like
My best friend’s diary after a breakup—
Bloody and bold)
Stomped and squeaked down those hallways
Like they loved being worn,
Like they were created for their muddy footprints
To shake up the ground,
The same ground hundreds of other
Strides belonged to,
But not one of them with this much sting.