by Sydney J., 15
the figure of my memories follows at close distance
a blown glass me, breakable
(not quite human but enough)
unless and until your homecoming
will torment and torture
invoking sweet memories to burn your eyes
until you wake thinking it’s my eyes in your mirror:
but i, in my shooting star passing, will move on
leaving you to wallow and i to love
to love myself as a sparrow loves the nest he came from
to turn and tuck my past self’s hair behind her ear
—when all you had leaves, remember the one left behind first: me
Downingtown, Pennsylvania
Bridge Ink 